Cries of the Surviving Soldier
by DisappearingKangaroo
Summary: After almost being forgotten, a man from John's past shows up, ready to get revenge, and not caring about the consequences. Some very nice hurt John and written for Kathy G *Complete*
1. Just the Beginning

**A/N This story is for** **Kathy G** **! Thank you so much for the prompt, I am having so much fun thinking it up! Although from this one chapter you can't really tell where I'm taking this story, I hope it's what you were looking for :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own any ACD or BBC characters. Only in my dreams. -exasperated sigh-**

It was a long day at the surgery. Well no, excruciating would be a better way to put it.

The entire day was full of over protective mothers and hypochondriacs of adults. In the beginning he started out with a nice attitude, giving new parents sheltering words, calming their worries of why their twelve month old (on the dot) wasn't walking yet. But by the end of the day he was practically yelling at patients to get out of his examination room, because the bump on your ear is nothing to worry about!

Finally the day was over, and all John had to do was fill out some paperwork. He'd gotten behind thanks to Sherlock surprising him with a case a week back.

"Hey John." A voice quips from the door frame.

Looking up, he sees that Sarah is giving him a sweet (and slightly pitying) smile. "Er, hello. Anything you need?"He asks, immediately thinking of the worst possible scenarios.

"Oh, not really." She says as if the question took her by surprise. "I have an extra cuppa, I was wondering if you'd like it?" Just as John opens his mouth to reply she says, "It's just that I know you've had a long day. And um, it's decaf so you know, you can sleep afterwards." That fact is really quite unfortunate, seeing as how he really needs a 'pick me up' right now. Although yes, it is quite late.

"Yeah, actually, that sounds great." He clears off a small patch of his desk to make room for the steaming cup.

Nodding nodding and setting down the cup, Sarah says, "Well, I'd better be off. Mick is still here, so don't worry about locking up or anything when you leave." Sarah says, walking back to the door frame.

"Sounds good. I'll see you tomorrow." Then with a smile he adds, "Unless Sherlock makes me go gallivanting after on another case."

Sarah smiles back, then leaves the room, keeping the door open knowing that there are no more patients to waltz in.

Taking a sip of tea and sighing, John begins the tedious routine of paperwork.

Only thirty minutes pass by until John is consciously willing to keep his eyelids from drooping. Thinking back on the past few days he can't help but blame it on Sherlock.

Lately John's sleep has been far from peaceful. Not just 'lately' though, he can pinpoint the exact time they got worse again.

Baskerville.

Since Sherlock's little _experiment_ his dreams are less than stellar. Like always, he adamantly refuses to tell anyone about this, and occasionally takes a few stashed away sleeping pills (God knows what would happen if Sherlock found them) to help. Proud of himself for not seeing his therapist anymore, he also refuses to get a new one.

Although the lack of sleep isn't entirely in the fault of dreams, Baskerville, and PTSD.

It started as a fake lead, which eventually led to an actual case, a nice few murders for Sherlock. Except that Sherlock refused to let Scotland Yard "interfere" this time. Which essentially left John to pick up the pieces.

Tired of trying to stick up for his flatmate, he told Sherlock that he has to let Scotland Yard in, or he'll tell Mycroft. But then again, judging by the fact that Sherlock hadn't been arrested yet, Mycroft probably already knew.

Nevertheless, the next day Lestrade and his team were also at the crime scene. This didn't stop the case from being stressful, and of course the very next day John had to work. At this point, it shouldn't be called a "flat-share" because Sherlock has pulled exactly none of his weight. It's closer to a flat-share with Mrs Hudson because of her discount due to Death Row in America.

Rubbing his eyes,John decides that he'll finish the paperwork bright and early tomorrow morning. Which doesn't sound too good either, but it's the best option right now.

While he flicks the switch off for the lights, he also grabs his coat and swings the door shut. He takes a deep breath (in: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three) and mentally prepares himself for the monstrosity- when he gets to the flat- which is called Sherlock Holmes.

For one of the first times in his life, the good doctor was able to call a cab first try, for which he was very grateful for. When he finally gets to his flat, he doesn't even bother pulling out his key, since he knows that Sherlock never locks it.

"Sherlock!" He calls out, climbing up the seventeen steps.

"John. I will advise you to not use the lavatory on this floor-" Sherlock starts.

"What did you do this time?"

"It was an experiment, John! I need my brain to do _something!_ " The detective retorts, as if that's a reasonable answer to why the loo can't be used.

"You just finished a case!"

"That was _days_ ago! Do keep up!"

"It was yesterday, Sherlock! Can't you just keep your mind occupied for at least twenty-four hours?!" John asks outrageously irritated.

"My mind is extraordinary! It needs-"

"Yeah okay, heard it before. At least this time you told me."

"Mrs Hudson said that I should do so."

"You brought Mrs Hudson into this?"

"Well…"

"Nevermind." John says, sighing. "I really don't need to deal with this right now. Don't blow up the flat tonight, I really need to sleep." With Sherlock's strange look he adds, "Not that you should blow up the flat any other time either. We don't need that. Definitely don't need that."

Sherlock just nods.

"Right. Well, I'm off to sleep now. No waking me up." And with that he trudges up the stairs into his room.

Really needing a nice rest tonight, he quickly changes and wraps himself in covers. The London Winter isn't very forgiving. Passing on sleeping pills tonight, mostly from the fact that he is already in bed, he closes his eyes, and unknowingly transports himself back to Afghanistan.

…

As the IED explodes, it sends shards of any and every material in the vicinity flying at terrifying speeds.

John hears the hellish cries coming from both sides of the war, but only focuses on a few of them. Ignoring his own new blossoming pain in his left leg, he runs over to a soldier, barely a man, and assesses the damage.

It's bad. It's severe. There's no way he is going to survive this. His eyes already know that though. John recognizes the look. It's the look that some soldiers get when they're hit. Inside, they know that they won't survive this. It's the worst look that John's ever seen. He's only seen it twice outside of the war, but countless times inside.

Despite the fatality of the wound, John still wraps it up, but nothing else. Morphine, a God send in the war, should not be used for this. As much as it pains John, he runs to the next soldier needing medical help.

Not a minute later he hears a shout of "NO!" coming from the soldier. But it didn't actually come from him. It came from another man squatting next to him, crying and yelling for him to wake up again.

The screams absolutely break John's heart, and he'll never get over them. The man next to the deceased soldier looks straight at him, and John knows that he knows. That the 'doctor' left a patient to die.

The doctor sees the other soldier's face contort in rage, fear, grief, any emotion known to man that doesn't even almost resemble happiness.

Begrudgingly, he turns back to his patient and tries not to think about another death that he blames on himself. But really, the surviving soldier adds to the casualty rate. Having to watch your best mate die in front of you… It changes a person.

When running to the next wounded soldier, his leg finally gives out, leaving him useless on the ground, with a perfect line of sight to the man, _young man,_ he wasn't able to save.

After what feels like hours, another medic comes up to him and wraps his leg up, helping him stand. But in his mind he still hears the cries of the surviving soldier.

….

John wakes up panting, gasping for air. Quickly opening his eyes and checking his surroundings, he is surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, instead of the soldier.

"I-I um. You told me not to wake you up." The detective says quietly.

"Yes, I do suppose I did. Was I-" He clears his throat "Did I wake you up?"

"No, I wasn't sleeping in the first place. Though you did give me quite… a scare."

Knowing that that is the closest thing that the so called 'sociopath' would say to mean. "I was worried" John says, "Well, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine now."

"You obviously aren't. The nightmare was from a traumatic time. You were unconsciously crying and calling out to someone to 'Let him go.' Furthermore, you've been grasping at your left leg -unknowingly, as it seems, based on your facial expression when I said that- which is the one that you had a psychosomatic limp, confirming my hypothesis of you dreaming about a traumatic event. There-"

"Get out, Sherlock." John says, with an alarmingly tranquille voice.

"What?" Replies Sherlock, not understanding why on Earth his flatmate would want him to leave. "Wh-"

"I said, get. Out." Replies John, grasping the sheets on his bed with white knuckles in an effort to not punch his flatmate.

Wordlessly, Sherlock nods and goes out of the room, closing the door behind him.

As soon as his footsteps fade out, John untangles himself from the bed and rubs his face.

So much for getting sleep tonight. With a quick glance from his clock (1.34) he walks in circles mindlessly around his room, trying to block out any thoughts.

Interrupting his circle walking, the door to the flat slams shut, and John knows that the great detective is going to be sulking around London for the next few hours.

Maliciously happy that he has the flat to himself the very, _very,_ early morning, he walks down the stairs into the kitchen, making himself a quick cup of tea, in an attempt to sooth his nerves.

Once the kettle starts whistling, John stands up from the chair he was previously sitting in and walks over. Until his left leg unexplainably buckles.

Growling in frustration, John slams his hand down on the table then walks the rest of the way to the kettle. Grasping at the tea bags from the cupboard, he makes himself a little tea, happy for the caffeine to keep him awake.

The army doctor doesn't know how much more of these daily nightmares he can take. Soon he'll have to go back to Ella, which he most definitely doesn't want, and there's no way that he could hide that from the world's only Consulting detective.

By the time Sherlock gets back (completely covered in mud for an experiment he had performed) John is already back into his room. The only thing left of his presence is the kettle sitting on the now cold stove, still almost entirely filled. He sends a quick text of to Mycroft:

 **Turn off the damn cameras. John does not appreciate you spying on him in the middle of the night, whether he knows it or not. ~SH**

Within the minute, the 'secret' cameras in their flat are facing downward, the little red light on the top turned off. It seems that, like his little brother, Mycroft does not find sleeping necessary or useful at any rate.

Quietly taking John's laptop and punching in the passcode (even Anderson could've figured his passcode out) he starts up an incognito tab and types in: **nightmares from ptsd.**

Carefully reading each word from multiple websites, Sherlock retains all of this information, making a new room in his mind palace for it. He won't tell John any of this, though.

After the detective finishes surfing the web, he closes down the numerous tabs on the computer, then restores it to how it was before he took it. Then he sits down in his chair, pulls his knees in close and just thinks. He thinks for hours and hours, until he hears footsteps coming back down into the kitchen.

"Sorry um, for last night." John says sheepishly, looking down at his feet.

"No worries- now, what time is it?" Sherlock says, acting as if he wasn't thinking about how he could help his flatmate the past-

"It's 6.30"

-five hours of the day. "Mm. Thank you." Moving only his head, Sherlock takes a good look at John before announcing his deductions "I take it you're going to the office to finish… Paperwork, since you didn't finish it yesterday evening _or_ today morning. And you're going extra early to beat the rush of traffic and so you can have some time to yourself without any patients."

John shakes his head in astonishment, "How did you- did my jumper give it away or something?" He says with a smirk.

"It's really all there John, if you'd just take a second to look around and _observe_."

"Well then, I'll be getting off then. No point in telling you where I'm going or how long."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side to agree.

"Don't bother Mrs Hudson too much today, alright? If Greg calls y-"

"Who?"

"Greg, Sherlock! The one you've been working with? Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?"

"Oh yes. Him."

"Right, so if he calls, no dragging me along, I have to pay the bills so that we can actually keep our flat. And if a client comes, don't scare them off. Just accept their case without making fun of them." John sighs at that last part, knowing how many clients are terrified of the man's deductions once they meet him. They assume that they're somehow impervious to the effects of Sherlock Holmes.

"Fine."

"Sherlock,"

"I won't scare any clients, or tell them that their wife is shagging their gardener."

"Great. I'm off then. Ta." He calls out, before swinging the flat door closed using the knocker.

On the cab ride to work,he can't help but think about his dream. Too many soldiers-

And then John's thoughts get interrupted by another car smashing into the cab.

 **A/N Muahaha cliff hangers**

 **Any reviews are very appreciated, whether they be** **criticism** **or kind words! They make me happy and self-confident!**


	2. Just Another Case

**Disclaimer: Characters not mine (I can dream though...)**

 **A/N I'm actually having some fun writing this. The time period is before The Great Game but obviously after A Study in Pink. Any reviews are appreciated :)**

The first thing that John felt was his pounding head and the noises of people yelling for help. His first instinct was to go help them, until he realized that this time he was the injured one.

The next thing he felt was the throbbing and fiery pain in his shoulder. He tried to shift around in the cab, which luckily was still on its wheels. He unbuckled his seatbelt with his good arm, and then tried to shift around to the not smashed side. And then to his surprise he saw the broken cab door wrenched open by its hinges from a man on the other side.

To weak to protest, the man roughly pulls him out. John knows that he is not a paramedic or EMT because 1. No ambulance has ever responded to an accident that fast in the history of ever, and 2. No medical professional would grab him out of a car like that.

Struggling to sit up (because he knows that this can't end well: a man grabbing him out of a car none too nicely), John ignores the pain in his head and shoulder, and tries to look around. He is quickly pushed back down by the same man, but not before he gets a good look around him. The man has him surrounded by the two vehicles and himself, effectively blocking any witnesses and John's view. The man goes and grabs John's neck, positioning him so that the only thing he can see is the man.

And then he leans in close and says, "I have waited so long for this. To get my revenge." A slightly terrifying humourless laugh erupts from the man as he looks over John like a lion looking over prey.

"Who-" John tries to get out, but everything aches. He definitely got thrown around in the crash.

"You've seen me before. But I wouldn't expect you to remember me. Or Ty. See, we were with you at the war," Another disbelieving chuckle escapes him, "We fought on the same side! But you killed Tyson. Left him to die. Was he not important enough to save? He was only twenty fucking years old! Who does that?!" He slams John's chest back on the pavement, and throws his arms up in rage.

And then everything clicks. How coincidental, he just dreamed about these two men, not twenty four hours ago. So then this man must be the soldier that was crying out the the other soldier- Tyson. Deciding to answer the question (even though he knows it was a rhetorical question) he says, "I had to chose-"

"Well you chose the wrong sodding choice you bloody prick!" The man -ex soldier apparently- slams his fist into John's bad leg, making him yell out. The blogger wonders how none of the other bystanders and witnesses aren't doing something. "I remember you bleeding there, piece of shrapnel, no? Heh. Never forgot it. I never forgot anything about you, about my best friend's murderer! But don't worry, _Captain Watson_ ," he says with a tone of a mad man, "This little _accident_ is just the beginning. I'm going to make your life hell. Because you know what? You deserve it." With one last sly smile he walks away, blending into the inattentive crowd, who doesn't suspect a thing of what the man just did.

After about three minutes the sounds of sirens fill John's ears, and make his every growing headache worse.

A few EMTs gather around him and start asking questions (what is the date, what were you doing, what hurts, etc). After being satisfied with his answers, one places a gauze over a head wound that John didn't even realize he had, and a neck brace is placed over his neck, which he knows is a standard procedure.

Soon he is on a stretcher, his vision already slightly fading. He sees the familiar inside of an ambulance, and then the sirens to be followed by it moving.

And then doctors are shining pen lights into his eyes and writing down the speed of dilation and how fast the pupils are dilating in relation the each other. John is quite familiar with the process. Except for the fact that he is always on the other side of the table.

John closes his eyes for what only feels like a second, but when he opens them again there is an IV in his arm, and the gauze on his forehead is gone. Only to be replaced with a new one. Surely the head wound isn't that bad, right? _Wait no, head wounds tend to bleed more because there are more blood vessels near the surface than any other part of the body._ The information streams into his mind, as if it was just waiting to do so.

Feeling his eyes droop once more, John mutters out "shoulder" since as far as he knows none of the doctors had inspected it yet. But then again he is unaware of what happened when he closed his eyes.

One of the doctors gives him a comforting, "We know." and then the ambulance slows to a stop, presumably because they are at their destination. Quite the fast way to get to work… Via ambulance?

He then closes his eyes.

He needs to catch up on sleep anyway.

…

 **finally you guys got that right -B** sent at 6.42

 **you have so little faith in me -C** sent at 6.42

 **i have a reason for that -B** sent at 6.43

 **hows the hospital? -B** sent at 6.43

 **normal -C** sent at 6.43

 **didnt you say that you didn't need anything until later? -C** sent at 6.43

 **yeah thats right -B** sent at 6.44

 **just making sure you idiots didn't fuck anything up -B** sent at 6.44

 **again, so little faith in us -C** sent at 6.45

 **go take a day off -B** sent at 6.46

 **i dont want to do anything in too quickly, that flatmate of his is getting quite the reputation -B** sent at 6.47

 **that sherlock holmes guy? -C** sent at 6.47

 **yeah -B** sent at 6.48

 **i heard that he could tell who was a murderer based on a coat -C** sent at 6.48

 **if i didn't know better i'd say you like that guy -B** sent at 6.49

 **nah -C** sent at 6.50

 **make sure that none of you guys get caught though. that holmes fellow can tell who and where you are -B** sent at 6.50

 **relax theres only 3 of us -C** sent at 6.51

 **well if you gits didnt fuck up last time he would've already been through this! -B** sent at 6.51

 **whatever -C** sent at 6.52

 **dont whatever me, collin -B** sent at 6.52

 **so about that day off -C** sent at 6.59

 **just get out of my hair and do whatever the hell you want -B** sent at 7.00

 **but when we get news on watson i expect you to tell me it -B** sent at 7.01

 **k -C** sent at 7.01

…

 _ **Some time later but still earlyish in the same day**_

The near future found Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in a dispute over the time of day.

"Sherlock I had to go to work early, I needed to do paperwork!"

"Early in what standards?" The detective questions, only getting out of this argument if he won.

"As in how the sun is, obviously! Time does matter!"

"Time is a relative principal. What does it matter anyway?"

"Time matters for us who go to jobs! To get paid!" John throws his arms up in disbelief. "Fuck!" He shouts out remembering that his shoulder is hurt. Again. Damn shoulder.

"I would advise you to not move around your left arm, the doctor said-"

"I know bloody well what the doctor said! I know that I shouldn't be using my arm as well, so just sod off." The doctor blamed his sour mood on his shoulder.

"Hmm? Really?"

"I don't need this right now Sherlock. Now can you pass me my phone?" He says, nodding to the pile of clothes on the empty chair in his room.

"Why?"

"Oh for Christ-" He takes a deep breath, "Can you just give it to me? I need to call Sarah and tell her that I won't be in today."

"I've already alerted her."

"Nicely?"

"What?" Sherlock asks, not understanding the question at all.

"Did you tell her that I wouldn't be going into work today with nice words?" He asks the question as if he was talking with a three year old.

"That's not really my field of expertise…"

"Oh Lord. How'd you even know I was in a crash?"

"Mycroft informed me."

"You mean your insane brother that can control CCTV cameras?"

"Yes of course that one, do you know any other?"

"It was sarcastic!"

"Oh." Sherlock replies, looking around the room, trying to figure out why any human would want to be sarcastic.

"Just go find my bloody doctor so we can get out of here." John mumbles, looking back down at his fingernails and picking at them.

"Okay." Sherlock says, walking out of the room and for once doing something voluntarily that helps his flatmate.

…

A few hours after that found the two sitting in their respective chairs back at the soon-to-be-famous 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock it was on purpose." John says, still scratching at his sling encasing his arm that the doctor demanded he wear.

"What was?"

"The crash."

"Mm?" Asked Sherlock, annoyed at John for taking him out of his mind palace and hiding his cocaine needles.

"The car crash I was in earlier today?" John says, wondering if Sherlock really can delete things.

"Oh yes that. Are we still talking about it? Or perhaps you forgot we talked about it because of your concussion?" He questions

"My concussion is not that bad!" John sighs a huge sigh, then says "And yes, yes of course we are still talking about it." Another deep breath, "I was saying how I think that someone planned it."

"And why do you say that? Your life is not that important -no, don't take it personally, no one's life is important."

"Right then, I'm going to pretend that you didn't say that and continue on to what I was saying: a man pulled me out of the car and told me that this crash was just the beginning."

"Hmm. Suspicious indeed. Now, tell me, what type of trainers was he wearing?"

"What if he was wearing dress shoes?" John counters, knowing (hoping to God) that Sherlock wasn't actually able deduce what type of shoes the man was wearing.

"Oh that's a pointless question, of course he was wearing trainers. I thought we went over asking pointless questions." Sherlock says, standing up from his chair and looking behind multiple desks and books probably looking for his beloved cigarettes or needles.

"I don't remember what brand or anything. I have a concussion, remember?"

"Yes, well that didn't stop you from yelling at the hospital- Where are they John!?" He suddenly shouts out.

"Sherlock I'm literally giving you a case right now, you do _not_ need to use right now!"

"Gah!" He says clutching the back of his hair turning around in a circle trying to figure out where his precious needles are. "Then tell me something _important_ right now!"

"He was a soldier from Afghanistan. He said that he was getting his revenge by causing the crash." He plainly states, waiting for his flatmate's reaction.

"Oh? Revenge from what?" He asks, suddenly uninterested in drugs and now standing still.

"Doesn't matter." John says quickly, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't understand why the event emotionally hurts even if someone told him.

"So you obviously feel bad for it. It has to be of some emotional significance since you are not telling me about it, or you're just insecure about it, and you haven't told anyone…" Glancing at John's reaction he says, "Or both, as it seems."

"Oh Christ why do I even try for these things." John mutters then announces that Sherlock's deductions were in fact true. "Yes, I blame myself for what happened, and yes, it is of emotional significance to me."

"Do you mind getting tea from the kitchen?" Sherlock suddenly blurts out, staring at the skull that Mrs Hudson had just replaced earlier that week.

"Sherlock do you even care about this?" John asks, not moving an inch from where he was sitting.

"What? Oh yes yes, of course. Now, tea." Sherlock says, waving his blogger off with a wave of his hand.

"Unbelieveable." John says under his breath. Although getting tea from the kitchen confirmed Sherlock's hypothesis.

"Oh that's alright, I don't actually want tea." Sherlock says, not even looking up when John brings him a mug full of steaming liquid.

"Then why!-" John takes a breath to make sure he doesn't give the world's only Consulting Detective a nice right hook.

"To answer my questions. Not only did this mysterious event in Afghanistan-" John rolls his eyes at Sherlock's dramatic wording "-have a strong emotional significance to you, but it was also traumatic. Because when I told you to go get the tea from the kitchen your limp had slightly returned. To anyone else it would just seem like your foot fell asleep, but no, I know better! This event is the reason why you had a psychosomatic limp!

"Which is also the reason why you refused to tell me about it. And what's more is that you dreamed about it last night. This is no coincidence! Coincidences do not exist, John! You must've happened to see him in a crowd, but paid no attention to him. But your subconscious thinks otherwise!

"You see, your subconsciousness reminded you about this man via dream. So that means that he was in London. And not only that, he was around you for a reason. It all makes sense! Quite the case indeed!"

Without taking a noticeable breath Sherlock continues, now slightly skipping and dancing around the flat. "But you said that he told you that this was 'Just the beginning'! Now, I need you to remember exactly what you saw when he talked with you after the cras-" Sherlock stops abruptly when he sees his flatmate's face.

John's face is twisted up in a grimace, which Sherlock can tell even though the doctor is looking down at the floor. Two tears fall from opposite sides of his face, and John doesn't even bother to wipe them.

"Sod off." John says, and then turns around and walks out of the flat. Sherlock notes that he is still limping when he does that.

Mrs Hudson comes down when she hears the door slam down to see Sherlock's face, looking strange like never before. It almost seemed to her like he was showing emotion. "You two have a little domestic?" She asks innocently, not knowing anything of what just happened. Though to be fair Sherlock isn't even sure what just happened.

"No" He clears his throat, "No, we're fine. And as John would want me to say, we're also not a couple. Romantically speaking. We are of course a couple technically, because there are two of us. Now, please leave."

Not surprised to see Sherlock displaying this type of emotion (closed off and reserved) Mrs Hudson just nods and climbs back up.

As Sherlock turns around he sees the 'secret' cameras back with the little glowing red light. He sends a quick text to his brother ( **Make sure John doesn't do anything stupid. And do turn off these cameras. -SH** ), before sitting down in his chair.

He then revisits the new room in his mind palace, filling it up with more information. There's now a new shelf in the room where he will keep evidence for this 'case'.

 **A/N Okay so I made the texts from the mysterious 'C' and 'B' without grammar and things like that for a reason (that being that it's a text...) This really bothered me though, so I don't really know why I did it. But just to be clear it was on purpose**

 **Reviews are like feeding me cookies!**


	3. Something's up

**A/N First of all, I made a mistake. I meant to say that this is somewhere after the HoB but before TGG. Really sorry about that. Second of all: I'm so so so sorry for the late update. I really have no excuse except for the fact that I've just been really depressed lately. Idk what's up.**

 **Thank you very much for the reviews; they make me super happy!**

As John walked across the bustling streets of London, he couldn't help but feel guilty. Guilty at every single thing he's done. He should've worked harder at saving that soldi- at saving Tyson. He should've been nicer to Sherlock, he was just trying to help.

He eventually found himself at the park that he saw Samford after he came back from Afghanistan. Barely even a year ago. Barely a year ago he hadn't met Sherlock yet. It feels so impossibly long though. Too long of a time ago.

A wave of remorse washes over John as he sits on a bench, massaging his damned leg. His left shoulder is also throbbing now- from the lack of medication- and the doctor decides that getting back to his flat is probably the best choice right now. He can't storm off like he used to. At least not while he's still crippled.

Sighing and standing up from the bench, John heads back toward 221B Baker Street, and ignores all of the pain in his body. And to make this sodding day worse, he notices a black car, with no plates, slowly trailing him.

Determined to not let Mycroft get the better of him (though there isn't much 'better' left of John today) he turns his head and acts as if it's completely normal to have a car trailing him. And then it starts raining. Cursing his bad luck, John gives up and opens up the door to the car.

"Hello Doctor Watson." Anthea, or what ever her name really is, says without looking up from her BlackBerry.

"Is Mycroft planning on taking me anywhere? Or can I request to just go back to my flat?" John asks, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Right to the point then?" Anthea says with a smile, still not looking up from her phone. "And no, this is merely a courtesy. Mr Holmes is just offering a ride."

"Not really though. He's not driving it." The good doctor says, not caring about his mood or how he's treating Mycroft's personal assistant.

Anthea just smiles again, without saying anything. She still keeps her eyes on her phone, which makes John wonder if she's ever seen the world around her. Who on Earth could she always be texting with?

Eventually the car pulls up to Baker Street (after suspiciously going through every single green light, with no red lights in sight), and John opens the handle to get out when Anthea speaks up. "Mr Holmes has instructed me to tell you that you should not go off all the time. It's a dangerous world, Dr Watson."

"Have you ever spoken your own words before? Do you ever just speak what's on your mind? Or do even have a mind of your own?"

"Ta, Dr Watson." Anthea replies, efficiently cutting off the conversation that never really began in the first place.

An "Unbelieveable" was mumbled from John while he closes- well no, slams- the car door shut.

"Sherlock!" He calls out, once he's opened the flat door. Ever since a faithful day involving an experiment, he's always done that. Just in case, of course.

"Sherlock?" He calls out again, after no one answers. Not even Mrs Hudson, which surprises him, because when Sherlock's caught up in some experiment, their dear Landlady (not housekeeper, mind you) always answers for him.

Wondering where Sherlock has gone off to, and hoping it's not another case, he climbs up the seventeen steps to find a surprise.

He finds Sherlock sitting in his chair, with three men all holding guns up to his head. Sherlock himself is looking quite annoyed, his eyes in a permanent roll and his face turned up in disgust. The doctor takes a quick scan around the room, and seeing no obvious threat to his flatmate other than the obvious, he asks, "Mrs Hudson?"

Looking up to one of the men Sherlock says, "May I speak?" sarcastically.

After a quick affirmative nod to the others, the man says, "Yes."

"Oh yes, she's fine. Off to get milk or something. I wasn't really paying attention." The detective says looking even more annoyed if that was possible.

"Enough small talk." One of the men says, taking his gun off of Sherlock and pointing it at John. With a smirk he adds, "I guess the healing process is taking some time, no?" Motioning to the arm encased in the sling.

"Who…?" John trails off, looking more and more concerned, his concussed mind slowly connecting the dots back to the crash.

"The name's Collins. But I'm not really the one you should be worried about."

"Sherlock mutters something underneath his breath (that sounds alarmingly sarcastic) which, in turn, earned him a punch in the face.

"Alright, alright!" John says, taking an instinctive step toward his flatmate. "Just everyone calm down." And with a glare to Sherlock, "No making snarky comments while we're at gunpoint? Yeah?" Take it from John to be the one to scold his friend while there are mysterious people pointing guns at him.

"Don't move!" Collins shouts out, putting his gun closer to John's head, causing the doctor to stiffen and put his hands up in defeat.

"Okay. Not moving. What do you want?" John asks, now facing Collins with one last glance to the famous detective.

"Frankly, I don't want anything."

"Of course not." Sherlock says with an annoyed sigh, and then yet another punch in the face.

"Sherlock shut up!" John says angrily, more mad than he'd admit at the fact that his flatmate is getting beaten up.

Ignoring the two, Collins continues, "But my employer, or not-so-close friend, is paying me."

"Is it Moriarty?" The doctor just had to ask. Ever since the pool incident, he really didn't want to take any chances.

Lucky for him, Collins answered with, "Who?"

"So then it's that guy who staged the crash." Says with a sigh to no one in particular. When did his life get to the point where he can name multiple people who are trying to kill him?

"I'd hardly call it 'staged', John." Sherlock says from his chair, surprising no one. John knows that his flatmate can't spend five minutes with his mouth shut.

"Shut him up!" Collins shouts out, exasperatedly waving his gun around, evidently forgetting that his gun was keeping Watson from running.

"Oh yes, please do." Sherlock says, not even bothering to look at the man. "Then I'll just talk in morse code, which only John understands. Is that really so much better?" John opens his mouth to tell him that he hasn't used morse code for years until he realized that it wasn't the point. He was just evading from being gagged.

"Well then we'll just knock you out. Sound good mate?" One of the other men says, taking his gun off of Sherlock to face him. "Not too smart are we now?"

With a grin that makes the men look at each other in fear, the detective says, "But you see, you've made an elementary mistake. Because now you have only one imbecile with a gun pointing it somewhere useful, as opposed to three."

Before any of the men could react to his statement, John and Sherlock quickly (and with worrisome efficiency) knock out two of the men. Wincing at the usage of his shoulder, John picks up the gun with his right hand and points it at the last conscious man, Collins.

"Okay now, who sent you?" John asks, holding the gun right up to Collins head, much like how it was not a minute ago, except that the tables were turned.

"I ain't telling you." He says, looking up at John and Sherlock.

"Listen, you can tell me now and walk out of here. Or you can not tell me. But if you chose the second choice, remember that you will not be walking out of my little flat. Not with your life anyway." He adds.

" 'Kay mate, I ain't telling you 'cause I'm not really supposed to be here."

"Closer," John says, "But not what I want. Who sent you?

"The man that found you at the crash."

"I NEED A NAME!" John shouts out, slightly worrying his flatmate.

A wicked smile comes across Collins face. "He worked so hard to get all of this. I ain't gonna be the one to ruin that. No name."

Losing his temper, John turns the gun around and hits Collins in the face with the butt of it, systematically knocking him out.

"Bloody useless." He mutters, and then turns to face Sherlock. "You okay?"

"Oh yes, just brilliant! These men are making quite the case, don't you think?" Sherlock replies, nudging Collins shoulder with his foot to make sure he's completely out cold.

"Except for the fact that they're out for my life! Did you miss that part?" John says, emptying the chamber in the gun then tossing it to the side. "Now? What do we do about these people? Scotland Yard?"

"Oh God no. I don't want those idiots containing and questioning them. They deserve something different."

"Sherlock…" John says, hoping that he's not going to do what he thinks he's going to do.

Hastily he pulls out his cell, and dials up a number. "Brother dear? Yes of course it's me. What other brother do you know of? Perhaps you better send a few of your men up to my flat. What? Oh no, we're just fine. Just a few idiots with guns. Yes, I know everyone is an idiot and I should be more specific. Though they did say that their 'employer' is attempting to take John's life. Don't fancy me with that, Mycroft, you know I don't care whether that happens!" With a dramatic eye roll Sherlock ends the call and throws his phone next to the gun.

"You ought to be nicer to your brother, Sherlock. He can make it seem like you never existed."

"Oh please." Sherlock replies, looking at the shoes and jackets of the men, no doubt deducing them.

"I'm going to call Lestrade as well. Just in case he hears anything. And as a heads up." Sherlock waves the comment off, and brushes some dust off of one of the man's trousers, making a small "Aha!".

Sitting down in his chair, John pulls his own phone out of his pocket and presses the speed dial for Inspector Detective Lestrade.

"Hey Greg."

" _Hey. Did Sherlock go gallivanting off on a case?"_

"No, not this time. But there are three unconscious men in our flat right now. Figured you'd want our statements and what not."

" _Bloody hell, John! Are you and Sherlock okay?"_

"We're fine, apart from a few punches in Sherlock's direction. Though to be fair he had those coming to him."

" _Sounds like him. I'm coming over now, just stay put, yeah?"_

"Alright. Bye."

" _Bye."_ He hears the dial tone and sets his phone down on the arm of the chair.

Sighing, John closes his eyes and leans back. He rubs his hand against his eyes, and pulls his left shoulder closer to his body in an attempt to lessen the pain.

"You're in pain." Sherlock calls out, ridiculously close to John's face.

"Bloody hell Sherlock! You're like a ghost!" John cries out, flinching at the sudden noise.

"You're in pain." Sherlock repeats, ignoring the look that his flatmate is giving him.

"Yes, I'm well aware." John says sarcastically.

"But you're not due for you pain medications until another two hours." Sherlocks says, sensing a conundrum.

"No shit, Sherlock." John mutters. "Good thing we have your extraordinary powers of deductions to read the sodding clock."

"Being in pain makes you angry." Sherlock points out, finally moving away from John's personal bubble.

"Oh for fu-" John takes a deep breath. "How long until literally anyone else gets here?" He asks, hoping to change the subject and let his anger simmer down.

"Despite my brother's ability to change traffic lights in his favor, his is quite the distance away. So Lestrade will probably get here first.

"Mmk." John says, closing his eyes again and massaging his shoulder. This day really needs to be over before someone or something else makes an appearance. He really doesn't have enough mental power to do anything else today.

After what feels like only a few seconds later (when it's really quite closer to ten minutes) Greg comes in the door to the flat, without even knocking.

Oh right, he forgot to lock the door when he came in.

"Why do you two somehow always end up attracting the crazy people of London?" Greg asks with a sigh, looking at the three 'sleeping' men in their living room. "Has Mrs H seen this yet?"

"No, she went out to Tescos. Isn't back yet." John answers, not having enough will power to look up at Greg or even open his eyes.

"Right then. Care to explain why there are men here?"

"Uhg." John says, and then sits up, wishing that the lights were turned off.

"The car crash earlier was on purpose. And some guy told me how I killed his best friend, and how I not only deserved to die, but to suffer also." John says it like announcing the weather, not like a death threat. "And then I went for a short walk," Sherlock snorts from the kitchen when he says that, because he knew that his 'walk' was really just to calm his nerves. "and when I came back home these three men each had guns pointing at Sherlock's head. That man," He says pointing to Collins "Is named Collins. The other two I have no clue. They didn't seem to be too important; they really didn't talk much.

"Anyhow, then Collins talked a bit on how he didn't care about me, but that he was being paid to be here. Then they got reckless and Sherlock and I knocked them out."

"You have concussion and a broken-"

" _Not_ broken" John corrects him.

"-shoulder! I'm pretty sure that beating a bunch of guys up is not what the doctor would've wanted!" Greg exclaims, glancing at the shoulder in the sling.

"Well, it was self defense. Oh and- as it turns out that man" he points again "Collins, shouldn't have actually been here. His boss or whatever didn't want him here."

"That all?"

"Pretty much." John answers, leaning back once again into his chair.

"Right then. You should probably rest now." He gives a supportive pat on John's leg and then says, "I'm going to go talk with Sherlock. Or rather, attempt to talk with Sherlock, but just worry about yourself now. I don't want to see you back in a hospital, unless you're the doctor."

"Mm." John mutters, nodding, and then closes his eyes.

The good doctor falls asleep to Greg trying to get a statement out of Sherlock, and doesn't wake until a long while later.

He sleeps through all of Mycroft and his men storming his apartment, who tiptoe around John, under instructions to not wake the doctor.

He sleeps through Mrs Hudson coming through the flat, ignoring the British Government and starting supper.

He sleeps through everyone leaving, and Sherlock's complaining.

He sleeps through an experiment gone wrong ("I'll put that on your rent, dear!"), and then the aftermath of it.

He sleeps through Sherlock playing the violin.

He sleeps through 11.32 the next day when Sherlock gets suspicious.

He sleeps through the shouting in his ear from Sherlock trying to wake him up.

He sleeps through Mrs Hudson's worrisome cries.

He sleeps through Mycroft's men taking him away on a stretcher.

So yeah, he doesn't wake up until a long while later.

 **A/N I know this chapter was crap, sorry, I just wanted to get something out here.**

 **Reviews make me happier than a lion in a cage full of gazelles!**


	4. Who's In On This?

**A/N Well well well. Looks like someone decided to get off their ass and write some. So here we go: another chapter! I just want to say thank you to everyone who's review/followed/favourited! It seriously makes my day!**

 **Again, the texting parts are supposed to have bad grammar and what not :) I also named the two other people with the guns after some people in my symphony... So if you see this- sorry ^-^**

"Fucking idiots!"

A man far across London curses at the stupidity of the men he's hired.

"I asked them to do one thing! To leave Watson alone!"

"We don't know for sure that they were taken." A different man pipes up, trying to calm his boss down.

"Are you also an idiot?!" No such luck. "Of course they were taken! They went to the damn flat. What were they thinking? _What were they thinking!_ Most people appreciate a day off!"

Unexpectedly jumping out of his his chair, the man grabs his disposable employee by the collar. "Listen to me. You need to go find out where Collins, David, and Chase are. And if you get caught as well.. So help me God…" He says, thinking of some threats to pose on the man. But no, by now _all_ of his men should know the consequence.

"Uh, yeah. I understand. And stay away from 221B I assume?" The smaller man says once his collar is released.

"Yes, you bloody bastard. And," He adds, "if you find out anything on Watson's condition, you tell me."

"Ok-ay." The employee says, separating syllables so it sounds drawn out and twice as long. "I'll text you."

"Only if you have information." The boss warns.

After the man leaves to attempt to get information, the retired soldier slams his fist down on the fairly nice table, ruining a bit of the finish on the top.

"Is it that fucking hard to stay away from two people!? Gah!" He says, talking to no one but the air, and slamming his other fist down on the poor table.

Then he pulls out an extremely old folded up picture from his pocket. "Soon," He says staring at the man in the picture. "Soon, Ty, I'll get your revenge." With a humourless chuckle he says, "I always told you I'd get my revenge. Even if it's years late. But don't worry, Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is in for a beating."

With a hysterical laugh, he stows away the picture. Now- to start up the next plan on the agenda.

…

Sherlock, who adamantly refused to talk to anyone else this dreary afternoon, sits next to his beloved flatmate. Who is still unconscious, laying on a hospital bed.

He looks moderately peaceful, except that every couple times an hour his arms twitch as if he's going to wake.

There's a blanket covering most of his body, only revealing the injured shoulder and an IV snaking out of the other arm. About an hour ago a nurse adjusted the sling on the man's arm, making sure that it was at least moderately comfortable.

But since then nothing even remotely interesting has happened. Well, that's not entirely true: a bird flew by the window exactly thirty three minutes and twenty seven seconds ago. The only good thing is that Mycroft let him keep the mobile that the man- Collins- had on him.

After cracking the code (which took four tries, he was having quite the bad day) the great detective hasn't taken his eyes off of it and his flatmate.

He'd be able to find out more, if he'd just focus. But he can't, because his best friend is in a state of a coma. For absolutely no reason. At first they had thought because of the concussion, but they said that the concussion wasn't severe enough to cause this. At least that's what the doctors had said.

Mycroft sent Lestrade and the Scotland Yard to question all of the doctors and nurses that came in contact with Doctor Watson after the crash, and to contain anyone suspicious.

Mycroft himself, has been randomly popping in and out of John's private room, and yelling at people through his mobile.

Mrs Hudson came by a while ago, sitting next to Sherlock before leaving again, saying something about residents at Baker Street. Sherlock wasn't really paying attention anyway.

 _Focus!_

All of Sherlock's brain needs to be working at the mobile right now, not John. He can't help John right now, except for finding out how this happened.

"Sherlock." Mycroft calls out from the door frame, looking disgruntled, as always. "Sherlock!" He calls out again, when his brother doesn't answer.

"What, brother, can be so important at the moment?" Sherlock asks, taking his eyes off the mobile, only to put them back on John.

"DI Lestrade has found a suspect."

"What? Who? You _must_ bring them in at this moment!" When Mycroft doesn't budge, Sherlock says, "Now!"

"Calm down, brother dear. I found this out only moments ago myself. Lestrade and Donovan are bringing her down right now. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go alert the guards of this." With a glance and a smirk down at the mobile in his brother's hands, he adds, "By now, I'd think that you would have gotten farther on such a simple object."

"Sod off, Mycroft."

"Oh my! Has this flatmate of yours rubbed off on you?" Mycroft says, knowing he's skating on thin ice at this point.

Wordlessly, the Consulting Detective gets up from his chair and leisurely walks to his brother.

Then pulls back his arm and punches him square in the jaw.

With a far too dramatic eye roll, Mycroft says, "Don't be childish, Sherlock." He brings up a hand to massage his cheek. "Mummy never liked it." And then turned around, to supposedly go tell security (who's blocking all of the entries to the particular floor, "I will take absolutely NO chances, Mycroft!") that there will be three people joining them soon.

"John," Sherlock says, staring at his flatmate and rubbing his fist "You must wake up. At this rate Mycroft'll be dead by morning. I think that perhaps murdering the British Government would be a bad thing."

And if John was conscious, he'd understand what his flatmate was really trying to convey with such a silly sentence.

"Please John. Wake up. For me?"

After muttering a few more things to John, he sits back down on the hospital chair, wishing that it was his own back at Baker Street.

Giving up on trying to determine how long it would take for the nurse and Lestrade to get there, Sherlock lets his mind wander, to a certain room in his mind palace.

After 2.43 minutes, a sound distracts him from his time in his mind palace. "John," He says reflexively, "Make it stop." Until he realizes that John is unconscious, and can therefore not stop the sound.

Opening his eyes, he jumps up from his chair so fast he almost knocks it over. Because the noise is very distinctive. It's the noise of a man choking. Worse than that, he is still unconscious.

"John! No, stop!" Sherlock shouts, feeling utterly useless next to his flatmate's side, who is now starting to seize. "John! Help! Someone!" The Consulting Detective doesn't even think about what people will say about his screaming. Someone- anyone- needs to help his flatmate!

"Sherlock, wh-" Mycroft voices says from across the room.

"Mycroft, do something!" Sherlock interrupts, sounding like he did when he was six, when he broke one of Mummy's china.

Mycroft, who now realizes the situation, runs out of the room faster than he has ever ran before. Not ten seconds later doctors rush the room, and Sherlock is tenaciously forced out.

Knowing that he can't do anything else for John at the moment, he turns to Mycroft, who is standing next to him, and pushes him against the wall.

"Where is she!?"

"Where is who?" Mycroft responds calmly.

"That nurse that you said Lestrade found! Keep up!"

"She's not here yet, Sherlock. You need to calm down. You're giving everyone quite the fright."

"Damn it Mycroft, I don't care!"

After exactly 7.51 minutes ("Estimations will not help if I can know the exact time") Lestrade and Donovan come through the door, with a small woman next to them looking awfully frightened.

"What did you do?!" Sherlock yells at her face, pushing Donovan out of the way. "What. Did. You. DO?!" Sherlock shouts again after she doesn't answer immediately after.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade scolds him, pushing him back a few inches from the woman's face.

"I-I had too." The nurse mutters, looking even more scared if that was possible. "H-he said he would kill me if I d-didn't."

"So you think your life is more valuable than his! You absolute imbecile!" Sherlock shouts at her, not even almost feeling bad. "What is it? What drug is it?"

"I don't k-know. He ju-just gave it to me. A-and he told me to inject it i-in to his IV… I thought- I was just s-so scared."

"You're useless to me. How on Earth can you call yourself a medical professional if you injected something unknown into a patient!? Waste of precious oxygen." Sherlock turns around swiftly, and mutters "Unbelievable."

While storming off, a doctor interrupts his path, and says, "Mr Holmes? We've Doctor Watson stabilized for now. We've been told to let you see him."

Without even saying a "Thank you" Sherlock takes off in the direction of John's room, his heart beating faster than it has in many, many years. Is this how normal people felt? It's absolutely horrible. How are you supposed to go through your day when you are worrying about someone?

When Sherlock walks into his flatmate's hospital room, he can't stop a tiny gasp from escaping.

The good doctor looks so much worse than he did ten minutes ago.

Now he's three shades paler, except for his face which looks ashen. There's still an IV in his arm, but now there's also a tube to help him breathe.

"Oh John. What have you done?" Sherlock asks his flatmate, dragging the chair in the room up next to the bed.

Not surprisingly, John makes no sound, or movement, or anything that would show that there is any life in his body.

Sherlock focuses on the rise and fall of his chest, even if it's now forced.

…

 **in a hospital -A** sent at 18.12

 **how do you know? -B** sent at 18.20

 **all of 3 rd floor is guarded -A** sent at 18.21

 **heavily? -B** sent at 18.21

 **they arent letting anyone even near the doors -A** sent 18.22

 **have you confirmed its watson? -B** sent at 18.23

 **who else could it be? -A** sent at 18.23

 **im not looking for a guessing game -B** sent at 18.24

 **do you know forsure? -B** sent at 18.24

 **no -A** sent at 18.25

 **dont go snooping around anymore. it's a miracle that you havnt been caught yet -B** sent at 18.26

 **is there any sign of collins? -B** sent at 18.46

 **no -A** sent at 18.48

…

John was never a heavy sleeper.

When he was little he had horrific insomnia, and even though that's gone away, his body certainly isn't scared to be awake in the middle of the night.

He'd been used to waking up to his father yelling out either at his sister or mother (when she was alive), and even at the University it's not like students are all that quiet.

Then when he went off to Afghanistan "heavy sleeping" was barely even a thought. At many times even "sleep" wasn't even a thought.

But then John got home to London, only bringing a few things home with him from the War. These being (but not limited to): a bullet wound, a psychosomatic limp, and appalling nightmares. Before he met Sherlock, there were nights where he couldn't even dream of sleeping due to memories. And even in the nights that he did sleep, it was almost always cut short from nightmares.

Though lately, John has slept entire nights. These usually occur after a particularly time consuming case. When his brain is too tired to conjure up any bad memories. As Sherlock learned the hard way, it is _not_ good to wake John when he's finally getting some well earned rest.

So, as John "sleeps" form the mysterious drug, his mind begins to slowly feed him memories. Just some simple memories.

After all, there's always a backbone for nightmares.

The first thing John sees is when he was still at Uni, snogging another girl. They're both ridiculously drunk, and neither John nor the girl will remember the rest of the night. Those drinks were definitely more than just beer.

But then the dream/memory shifts from reality.

As John takes his lips off of her, blood comes from her mouth. For a fleeing second the not-quite-doctor(-yet) thinks that he's bit her. But then she opens her mouth and blood pours from it. When John looks down at her, there's a huge wound in her abdomen, so big that John wonders how she's still standing.

After litres and litres of blood falls from her mouth, she says, "You did this to me, John." And then falls backwards, dead.

His brain finally catches up, and he realizes that he is just dreaming. He opens his eyes, and then finds himself being choked.

Wait, that isn't right. It felt like he was being choked from the inside… And oh God that light above him! It was like looking into the sun itself.

No, that doesn't matter. What matters is that he's being choked from the inside! That's not the right word… Right, of course. He's being suffocated. He mentally brings up the checklist of what to do if you're being suffocated.

1) Don't panic.

2) See if he can dislodge the object by himself. If he can cough or even breathe slightly, then his trachea is not completely blocked-

"John? John!" Hold on, why is someone calling his name? "No, stop." The voice comes closer to him. He recognizes that voice! It's Sherlock!

"It's okay, it's a ventilator. Don't fight it." The voice of his flatmate calms him down enough that he can notice that he's still actually breathing. "Just breathe normally. I'll get a doctor. Don't move." Sherlock hastily darts out of the room at that last comment.

As if he could move anyway.

Not a minute later Sherlock comes back with a concerned looking doctor. John knows what happens next. The dreadful process of removing a tube from his body.

Five minutes later finds the two flatmates (looking equally exhausted) staring at each other, neither one wanting to be the one to talk first.

"So." John says, clearing his still irritated throat. "This is what happened when I decided to sleep?"

"You started choking." Sherlock states plainly, as if he didn't hear John's comment.

"Sorry?"

"Earlier. Yesterday, actually. You were breathing fine… And then you just starting choking." Sherlock mutters, looking still rattled from the event.

"Oh." The good doctor replies, not knowing how to react to that.

"You were poisoned. One of the nurses that helped you after the crash poisoned you. Apparently she was threatened to do so." Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. "She was just weak. Whoever staged the crash convinced her to drug you. The effects didn't show until hours later, two days ago."

"Wait, two days ago?"

"Yes. When you decided to take a little nap it was two days ago. Yesterday evening you started to choke. It's 2.13 right now."

"Oh. Um. Sorry I scared you." John says sheepishly, honestly feeling bad for something that he had no control over.

"Nonsense. You didn't have a choice."

"To scare you? Or to get drugged?"

"Both." Sherlock replies curtly, looking away and toward the window displaying the darken sky. "How are you feeling now?"

"Uh, let's see. Still a little sleepy. Well, more of drowsy type of deal. My shoulder still sort of hurts and my head is pounding. That's all." Sherlock holds his tongue to disagree, for his flatmate is still looking pale and sickly.

"Do you want some pain medication?" Sherlock asks, trying to be helpful in a situation that he feels useless.

"Not at the moment. I've just woken up, I'd like to stay like that." John replies with a smile. He tries to sit up, with one arm, which doesn't exactly work as plan.

"You're very stubborn." Sherlock notes, watching his flatmate struggle.

"Eh. Care to help?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry." With some effort on both parties, John is sitting up in the hospital bed, looking straight into Sherlock Holmes' eyes.

"Um. Sherlock? You're a little close."

"I suppose I am. I'm going to go get a doctor. Then we can talk some more." Before John can reply or disagree, Sherlock is out of the room.

John sighs, not bothering to call after him, and in this state he can't run after him.

After about two minutes he comes back with a different doctor from before.

"Good to see you up, Doctor Watson. Now, let's talk about yesterday."

 **A/N Reviews make me happier than a lion in a cage with a bunch of** **gazelles!**


	5. Headache

**A/N Good long chapter for you folks! I really don't say it enough, I love each and everyone one of you!**

 **Disclaimer: Still not mine :(**

"Good to see you up, Doctor Watson. Now, let's talk about yesterday."

John and Sherlock both look at the doctor from their respective places, with varying looks of concern etched on.

"Although first I do believe some formalities are in place, now that you are conscious." He says, nodding at John. "I am Doctor Abaine, and you've been here for approximately two days. It's now Wednesday at 2.15. Quite the early morning." He notes, looking at the clock. "Now- after given a mysterious drug the day of the accident you've been in a coma-like state up until about five minutes ago.

"I say 'coma-like' because yesterday your trachea spasmed, which- among other things- proves that your muscles were not all 'asleep'."

"Do you know what the spasm is from? Er, what caused it?" John asks, unknowingly swallowing to test the functionality of his throat.

"Well, it lasted for fifty seconds, and because there are no other symptoms we're guessing that it's Laryngospasms. Has this ever happened before?"

"The spasms, no. Being mysteriously drugged? Quite a few times at this point."

"Well, because we have no other data, we don't know for sure if it's Laryngospasms, but assuming it is, I have to unfortunately tell you that you should be prepared for more." Dr Abaine answers, choosing to ignore the comment on being drugged.

Sherlock, who had been strangely quiet these two minutes, speaks up from his chair, "Were the spasms brought on by the drug?"

Doctor Abaine lets out a small defeated sigh before saying, "Honestly, we're not sure. I believe that it was just purely coincidental. These spasms can be brought on even when the victim is sleeping or unconscious. Although, the drug certainly didn't help, because it prevented Doctor Watson from waking up during the spasm."

Other than a short snort when the doctor said 'coincidental' by the detective, neither of the flatmates said anything.

Noticing the silence Dr Abaine says, "Well, Mr Holmes- er, Senior-" He says with a glance toward the younger Holmes, "has instructed us to not discharge you until a minimum of twenty-four hours has passed since the regaining of consciousness."

"Absolutely ridiculous." Sherlock complains.

"Shite." John mutters simultaneously, causing the doctor to shake his head at the flatmates.

"Again, it's around 2.20 right now, so I recommend you get some sleep. Both of you. If you need anything, just holler. There's no one else on this floor right now, so don't hesitate."

"Sounds good." John says, nodding.

"Breakfast will come at 7.30, but we have vending machines on this floor, and there's a cafeteria on the first floor, if Mr Holmes lets you move from this floor. Although Doctor Watson I would recommend for you to not immediately stand up and walk around." With that and a quick nod, Doctor Abaine exits the room, leaving it to just the flatmates.

"Well, that was tedious." Sherlock says, looking quite bored to mask his concern for his friend.

"It's his job, Sherlock." John says, already in I'm-not-gay-or-his-boyfriend-or-mother-I-just-care-about-him-a-lot mode. "Plus if he didn't keep me here for a full day, God knows what Mycroft would do to his job. Or his life." John adds, eyebrows in a crease like they always are when he's right about to go into deep thought.

"You should probably rest, John." Sherlock says, taking his attention back to the bed with his friend on it.

"I just slept for two days straight! Plus, you need sleep too." John retorts, even though he is actually tired for some reason. Perhaps his brain just isn't ready to be awake.

"John, I can easily deduce that you are really quite tired. Take some water though, then I'll explain how I know." The Consulting Detective says, picking up a glass of water that John didn't know was there.

"Yeah, that's not necessary. The deducing part. The water part sounds great." Holmes nods and brings the glass up the John's lips, not caring what the media says about this. Not like they would find out though. Right?

After John finishes the water he says, "Right now, you should probably get some sleep too. I'm sure that you could find another bed around here. Especially because Mycroft cut off this entire floor." He sighs, "Isn't that a bit overkill anyway?"

"Just in case, I suppose." Sherlock says, but it's obvious to John that he doesn't mind, or even that he's happy about the fact that John is more safe.

"So, bed?" John asks again, not bothering to hide the concern.

In reply Sherlock just waves him off, and both of the flatmates know that he's not going to get a bed.

"I will tell Mycroft." John threatens, not letting down.

"No you won't."

"Try me." The doctor retorts, smirking.

"Ughn." Sherlock complains, like a little kid, the Sherlock that everyone has learned to know and love. (Sometimes.)

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Most people -well no, all people- would take a bed over a chair to sleep in! Wait, have you even slept since I got here?"

"Er, no."

"Sherlock!" John says, and then winces, surprising both of the men.

"What hurts?" The detective immediately asks, standing up from his chair.

"Nothing really."

"John…" He trails off, walking up to the bed.

"Just a headache. It's not that bad, don't freak out.

"Does your shoulder still hurt?" Sherlock asks, but not forgetting about his head.

"Eh. A little stiff. Nothing major though. Really Sherlock," He adds, since his flatmate is still giving him a look. "I'm fine. Now get a bed or I'll do it."

"Fine." Sherlock surrenders, walking out of the room.

While walking to get a bed he just _happened to walk into Doctor Abaine_ (he certainly _didn't_ make sure to cross path with him, if that's what you're thinking…), and caught his attention.

"Ah, Mr Holmes. Is everything alright?"

"Although John won't admit it, his head and shoulder are certainly still hurting. I wouldn't bring it up though, there's a 71% chance he won't trust either or us for at least 32 hours. But just to let you know. Oh and- I'd go call your daughter before she goes and shags the boy she's just 'friends with'." With a twinkle in his eye, he goes into a room and grabs a bed, as planned.

Lucky for him, all hospital beds have wheels on them, so getting it to John's room was really no problem at all.

The real problem occurred when Sherlock went into the room and saw his flatmate.

John's face was twisted up in a grimace, and his eyes were tightly screwed shut.

"John?" Sherlock asks, walking up slowly to his bed, afraid of something, he doesn't even know what.

"Ah… Christ." John mutters, putting his right arm over his eyes, in an attempt to block out more light.

Understanding this, Sherlock swiftly gets across the room and flicks off the lights, leaving the room with all the natural light of 2.25, which, is nothing. Except for the lights around the city leaking in from the window.

"Your head?" Sherlock asks, even though he didn't have to.

A short not-really-nod comes from a strained John, and then another pained groan escapes from his lips.

Not wanting to leave his flatmate or yell, the detective punches the nurse call button, then directs all of his attention to his friend. Slowly he peels John's arm off of his face, which is left on his chest, ready for him to put it back on his face. Sherlock mutters an "It's okay" when he pulls his arm away. Mycroft would scoff at his 'sentiment'.

"Oh God, Sherlock…" John says, still keeping his eyes closed. "Not a normal headache… Shite."

Before the flatmate could reply, Doctor Abaine comes in, trying to mentally assess the situation. "What-"

"Head," Sherlock interrupts, not taking his eyes off of John. "His head hurts. He says it doesn't just feel like a headache."

"Mmm" John groans in an attempt to agree.

"Okay. John, I need you to open your eyes." Doctor Abaine says, surprising both of the flatmates the the usage of his first name.

Slowly, John does open his eyes, but barely, and with some personal protests.

"Now, does anything appear blurry to you?"

"Not re- Ahg!" John says, throwing the back of his head into the hospital grade pillow to try and relieve some pain.

"Stop!" Sherlock frantically calls out, knowing that John already has a concussion, and hitting his head (however lightly against a pillow) is not good.

"Pleease.." John says, drawing out the word, tears slipping from his eyes.

The doctor then turns on his heel, which pisses off Sherlock until he comes back not ten seconds later with a syringe. Wordlessly, he pushes the contents of the syringe into the IV, while Sherlock is still staring at his flatmate, unsure of what to do.

With a light touch, Sherlock brings John's arm all of the way back down to his side, and then watches his erratic breathing slow down. Soon it is obvious that he is sleeping, causing Doctor Abaine and Sherlock to let out a breath they didn't know they were holding in.

"What happened?" The doctor asks, taking another deep breath and setting the empty syringe down on the small table in the room.

"I- I don't know. I went out, and when I came back he was in pain… I don't know what changed from when I left."

"That's alright. Just, keep an eye out. Thank you for telling me about his pain though. We'll do some more tests when he's feeling better." The doctor then goes about connecting some wires to some other ones, then some to machines and then a few to John himself, something that Sherlock had probably learned about some time or another, but then deleted it.

After a minute or two, there is now a machine that is matching John's heartrate and breathing. "I do recommend you get some sleep as well. There's now even a bed in here… That you dragged in. Now if you'll excuse me, there's still a call I need to make to my daughter." With one last slightly pitying smile, the doctor leaves and Sherlock is left with an unconscious flatmate and best friend once again.

He climbs up onto the other bed, but sits on it rather than lying down. He pulls up his knees and wraps his arms around them, getting into deep thoughts. Closing his eyes, he goes to his mind palace. A certain room though, a very new room.

The closet in John's new room is now filled with what he knows about headaches of John's from the past. Stress, anger, sadness,- Ugh! Too many emotions to get through! How do people survive with these emotions anyway? Do all of these cause headaches…? Of course! Only at extremes. So then, headaches are caused when emotions go to extremes… Also when stacked on top of each other… So having stress and worry and anger all at normal levels but at once could cause a headache.

Sherlock closes to door to the closet and goes to a new filing cabinet. Symptoms occurring because of this new drug…

The great detective stays in his mind palace for many hours, until he eventually finds himself lying down on the bed, his head over a pillow.

Maybe sleep doesn't sound _that_ bad…

Thirty minutes later when Mycroft strolls into the dark room (after just recently hearing about the worsening of Doctor Watson's condition) he sees both of the flatmates are sleeping, looking as if there's not a care in the world.

His mobile chimes, and he sends off a quick text off to Anthea ( **Cancel everything for the next three days. -MH** ), and settles down into the chair that was once occupied by his brother.

Even though this is just the beginning, Mycroft can tell that this case is going to be the beginning of something bad.

Unfortunately, only two hours later, he gets another text from Anthea, requiring his assistance.

…

When Mycroft finally gets to the secret prison, the three men are looking quite terrified indeed. And although it is obvious that they aren't working for Moriarty, they aren't anything good either.

The man that Sherlock took his mobile off of is named Collins, and the other two are named David and Chase, he just doesn't know which. Should be easy enough to figure out.

With a quick nod to Anthea, she leaves Mycroft with the three intruders.

"I will have no problem with you three, if you just answer a few questions for me. No-" He holds up a hand when Collins tries to speak. "I assure you, this will go much better for you if you let me talk." Poor, poor, ignorant fools.

"We ain't telling you anything, just like we didn't tell John." Collins said with a far too confident smirk.

"So you've now told me that you knew who you were going after, so it can't just be a 'pay and go' type of deal. And he obviously trusts you enough -fatal mistake- so he must be more than an acquaintance to you three. Judging by your faces, I'd say that he personally hired you for this job, after learning about you. Hm." Mycroft cocks his head to slightly the left as he deduces these men. No wonder Sherlock get's off of this, he hasn't had this much fun in quite some time.

"Right now, the questions. 1) Who are you working for? 2) Why is he -yes, of course I know it's a 'he'- is going after John Watson 3) What's in it for you? 4) How much longer is this going to last? Oh and this last one is more of a statement, Stop chasing Doctor Watson. My brother doesn't have a fraction of the temper control that I do."

When none of the men say anything, Mycroft leans against the wall in a calm fashion and says, "David." One of the men clearly looks up, which answers the question of which man is which. "You seem to hide in the shadows and do whatever your superiors tell you. Care to do anything useful and answer my questions?"

"Fuck off, you rich bastard!" He says, which most definitely is not an answer.

Mycroft gives a long suffering sigh and says, "Well then, I suppose that is what I predicted. Anyone else want to answer?"

"No chance, old man." Collins says, still looking like he owns the place.

"Ah. Not surprising. Well, I'll come back later. Oh and you're going to be moved to another place, just to let you know. I need results within the next thirty minutes.

"What? This place not good enough?" Chase says with an eyebrow raised, with nonsensical thinking that things are going his favour.

Mycroft, though, choses not to answer. But as he closes the cell door behind him he says, "Ever heard of an anechoic chamber?"

…

Silly little men, the longest one of the men lasted was 23 minutes. Easy enough to get information out of. It's a useful little room to have, along with everything else. It's like when people go to Sherlock Holmes and think that they can not be deduced. When one goes into an anechoic chamber, do not expect to be immune.

"Anthea," He calls out, knowing that she is in the close vicinity, "Text my brother that I have answers."

"Alright Sir." She says, pulling out her BlackBerry.

"And under no circumstances should he, along with anyone else on that floor of the hospital come or go." Starting the route to the black car waiting outside he adds, "Something is coming for John Watson."

…

When John Watson wakes up (yet again, he seems to be doing a lot of his lately), it's in the normal hospital room. His head is back to a dull throb, which is more than relieving. The only thing even remotely different is that Sherlock is sleeping. A very surprising thing to see.

A man walks into his room, someone that he's never seen before.

"Who-?"

He get's cut off before he can say another word. "Big plans for you, John. Big plans."

"Wh- Sherlock!" He calls out, knowing that at the moment Sherlock has more physical strength, in case something happens, which is bound to happen given their luck.

On cue, Sherlock wakes up, equally surprised to see a man in the room. John can see the moment where it all clicks in his brain.

In an instant Sherlock has jumped out of the bed he was occupying, and pushed the man against the wall.

"Who sent you?" He questions, bringing his arm up to the man's neck.

"It don't matter, my friend." Sherlock scoffed at the usage of 'friend'. "The damage is already done." The mysterious man says with a smile.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock calls out, keeping the man pinned to the wall. "How did you get in? How did you do it?!" Sherlock yells, as Lestrade comes bustling into the room. It makes John feel a little awkward and weak, still laying down on the bed.

"Sherlock, calm down!" Lestrade says, standing next to Sherlock in front of the man, completely obscuring the vision of the man, and John's view of him.

"Come on now, out, out!" Lestrade says, pushing the man out of the doorway.

"The damage is already done!" The man says, with an evil grin.

Sherlock stays in the room and his eyes fall on John. "John! Alright? Are you alright?!"

"God, Sherlock, keep it down. I'm fine. Though I still have a concussion, so if you don't mind, please keep it down?"

"What did he do?!" Sherlock says (none too quietly, one might add), ignoring John's complaint about the noise.

"Nothing! He came into my room and said there were big plans for me, and then I woke you up! Absolutely nothing else." John says, rubbing his eyes, which are still slightly drooping.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I just said there's _absolutely_ nothing else."

Lestrade peeks his head back into the room and says, "Sherlock, your brother would like to speak with you."

Sherlock scoffs and says, "Not now, Lestrade!"

"Sherlock, it's fine." John puts in, needing a break from the constant yelling anyway.

"Fine." The great detective says, crossing his arms like a child.

Lestrade and Sherlock both leave the room, giving John some peace and quiet for the first time in days. Except when he was unconscious, of course.

When Sherlock gets to the lobby of Floor Three, Mycroft is standing there, leaning on his umbrella looking rather smug. Perhaps Mycroft's face is just permanently stuck like that given the amount of times he has that expression on.

"Brother dear." Sherlock rolls his eyes on his brother's unoriginal greeting. "Fancy a conversation?"

 **A/N So as it turns out my dad has been getting those spasms for a while now (thanks for telling me sooner, family (she says sarcastically)), so I wanted these characters to also suffer. Muahahaha.**

 **Reviews make me happier than a lion in a cage full of gazelles!**


	6. Action, Action! ACTION!

**A/N Hey Hey it's me. Another chapter for y'all. I'm going to try and finish this by July 1st, because I will be away from internet and electronics for a full week starting on the 2nd. Just as an fyi, this may not be possible.**

 **Oh and if anyone is wondering I actually have a Tumblr. It's apologize .in** **. advance** **(no spaces in reality). It won't have any updates on stories, but my poems are there... So yeah.**

"Brother dear." Sherlock rolls his eyes on his brother's unoriginal greeting. "Fancy a conversation?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock says plainly, trying to ignore him and his PA that goes everywhere with him. To think that Moriarty calls John a 'pet'.

"I have some information that I'm sure you'll enjoy hearing about." Mycroft says, just as plainly, as if there is not a man's life at stake.

"Tell me all of it." Sherlock says curtly, oblivious to the fact that there is a man walking straight into John's room.

"There are thirty four people all working for this man that has a grudge against John. I have only three of them, Collins, David, and Chase. The man himself is Brenton Walker. He is getting back at John for something that he did at War. None of the men knew what it was. Ultimately, I do believe that he is out for John's life. So far, he's only personally come to John once, and that was after the crash."

The crash. It seems like a lifetime ago for the Holmes brothers, when in reality is wasn't even a week.

"I will kill him then." Sherlock states plainly, tired of his friend's life being in danger. This case is no longer fun. "No, I will kill all of them." He adds, not letting anyone that has a reason to hurt his flatmate live.

"Sherlock, you can't do this by yourself."

"I don't care." He retorts, stubborn as ever.

"At least get help from Scotland Yard. This isn't Moriarty, he doesn't know how to use people against you. There are still thirty one other people you need to get through before you can stop the problem at the source." Mycroft goes along, trying to convince his little brother that what he is planning is a bad idea. Deep in conversation with his little brother, The British Government is also oblivious to the man that is now in John's room.

The Holmes siblings complain and argue (although the complaining part is really just Sherlock) for the next ten minutes, for once not paying a ridiculous amount of attention to the space and people around them. Which was quite the fatal mistake.

After another minute of their bickering Lestrade gets involved. "Okay, listen here." He says, acting like the mother to two kids. "No more yapping about. I get that you guys never get along, but this needs to stop. I don't know what is going on, but I'm also not a bloody idiot. Someone is obviously going after John, and you two gits yelling at each other sure as Hell isn't help." Lestrade takes a breath, realizing that he just stood up to the man who controls his job. "Sir." He adds, just for good measure.

Sure enough, this does the trick. Both Sherlock and Mycroft stop yelling at each other and look at Lestrade. Mycroft sighs and leans on his umbrella in a slightly different manner. Sherlock just crosses his arms, his mood still sour and unforgiving.

"I'm going after that man." Sherlock says, before turning to go back into John's room. Unfortunately for him, he's a little late in that regard. Lucky for the man, he's given him enough time.

While walking down the hallway to the room, a man comes out of it, surprising Sherlock. Before he can say anything or yell out, the man pulls out a gun and aims it right at Sherlock. Breathing heavily increasing, he runs up to the gun, in an effort to reach John.

Sensing his plan, the man doesn't hesitate to shoot the gun. He came here to get Watson once and for all, but killing Sherlock Holmes is just icing on the cake.

In less than a second, Sherlock feels a fiery pain blossom from his right side.

"GAH!" Sherlock yells out, reflexively pressing his hands to his side.

"Sorry Mr Holmes," The man says, his figure blurring, along with the rest of the hospital hallway. "Nothing too personal."

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" He hears John cry out from the room. Good: John is not hurt. At least, not hurt to the point where he can't talk or yell. "SHERLOCK!"

The detective would love to respond, but at the moment his body isn't exactly agreeing with him. His legs have buckled, and he is now leaning against the wall to support his weight.

"W-who?" Sherlock asks, staring up to the man who has now walked up close to his face. Which is good for the detective because his vision is tinted grey and black except for a small sliver.

"The name's Brenton. I really don't have much against you, but you've been helping John Watson, so you know…" He waves a hand to the new wound on Sherlock's side. "That kinda had to happen." He shrugs like it's no big deal, and everyone gets shot. It's just one of those things that happens.

"Sherlock!" Gets called out again, but this time from a different voice. Think, Think! Who has that voice? Of course! Lestrade.

"L-estrade!" He wheezes out, turning his head to hopefully see him. "John. John. Ge-" A wet cough racks his body. "Get him safe!" He can slightly see the the body of Lestrade coming close to him, until his body stops abruptly.

"Yeah, I'm real sorry about that," The man says, causing Sherlock to turn his head back around to see the man again, "But you aren't getting to John Watson." The gun in his hand is now pointed at the DI. "Let me put it this way- if you get any closer I will shoot you, and Sherlock here. Well, again."

At this point, Sherlock doesn't have enough energy to look back to see Lestrade's reaction, but if he did, he'd see the DI taking out his own gun.

"Uh, no. That won't work out." The man says, seeing Lestrade's gun. "Because you see, I came prepared. See, I've spent my entire fucking life trying to get revenge for my best friend, who was murdered by Dr Watson here. I'm not going to let some officer stop me from fulfilling my life dream.

And if Sherlock was still conscious, he would've heard John's shouting. He would've heard a "Thump!" From Watson's body hitting the ground after trying to scramble out and get to his friend.

He would've seen a few nurses and Mycroft run to the hallway calling Sherlock's name.

He would've seen Lestrade surrendering his gun.

He would've heard the gasps of the people around after John appears from the door of his room, leaning on his IV stand, trying to help the situation.

But he didn't hear or see anything, which means he didn't see ten other men storm the floor, all with guns, causing Mycroft to be flabbergasted. His guards were going to be in _so much trouble_.

Sherlock also missed John being knocked out by Brenton Walker (this really can't be good, he hasn't even almost healed from the concussion) and dragged along the corridor, in front of everyone who is now being held at gunpoint.

After that was all over, the eleven men and John left the third floor. Mycroft, Lestrade, and two doctors rushed toward Sherlock's unconscious form.

Sherlock certainly didn't remember feeling this, but when the doctors pulled him up on a stretcher, he groaned out in pain.

He doesn't remember the eight hours in surgery (that is the only thing that he is greatful for), or the twenty five hours spent unconscious.

But, the most important thing that Sherlock Holmes does not remember, is that his best friend was taken away.

…

When Sherlock did wake up, he didn't feel a thing. It was actually quite nice. Morphine can be quite the pal at times like this. And to think that people think that drugs aren't nice.

For a few seconds of bliss, Sherlock forgot where he was, forgot the situation altogether, and just enjoyed the drugs being fed straight into his veins. But no- this will not work. Something is still nagging at his brain… Someone…

John. John!

Of course! In an instant, Sherlock's eyes shoot open, turning his head to the side in hopes of seeing his flatmate.

Instead, he was greeted by the surprised faces of Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade. Though, their faces were almost immediately replaced with worry.

"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded, though it ended up sounding more like "Wherr Jawm?" Due to his muddled state.

Both Mycroft and Lestrade knew what he was trying to ask, and both knew the sad answer. Casting each other a suffering glance, Mycroft sighs and says, "Sherlock, there was a total of eleven men that slipped past my guards, who are working for the man -Brenton Walker. My guards were fired yesterday, for not catching Walker's people."

Clearly not satisfied with his answer, the younger Holmes asks again, "Where is John?" With barely any temper control. He absolutely had to make sure that John was okay. There's no way he'd be able to stay here and heal otherwise.

"They all had guns," Mycroft says, giving a sympathetic look -one that almost no one has seen- "And caught us off guard."

"Where. Is. John." Sherlock says, sounding awfully terrifying for a man that's been unconscious for a day and a half.

"They took him." Mycroft says solemnly, but looks straight into his brother's eyes so he knows that it's the truth.

"No!" Sherlock yells at his older brother, which really made his injury announce its presence. Then more quietly (due to the pain, of course. If it was up to him he'd be screaming at the top of his lungs at Mycroft with a loaded pistol) he says, "I gave you one job." He looks down and then says, "Mycroft, I can't lose him."

Neither the DI or the British Government say anything at that. Because seeing Sherlock this hurt and vulnerable is like seeing a unicorn steal a leprechaun's pot of gold.

Fiddling with the instruments attached to him, the detective turns down his morphine. Right now, pain is not the problem. Finding John is. The two other people in the room don't say anything to this.

After about two minutes of awkward silence -but really, any silence around the Holmes will always be awkward- Sherlock decides that he needs to get up and pace around the room. Or, better yet, just find John.

As Lestrade sees Sherlock try and push himself up he says, "What are you doing?"

"I need to find John." Sherlock says, strangely calm given his outburst not five minutes ago.

"Absolutely not!" Lestrade says, throwing his hands up in disbelief. "You just got bloody shot! What one Earth are you thinking?!" Of course. This is just typical Sherlock behaviour.

"Oh what? You think that John is just going to, I don't know, _waddle_ his way here?!" Sherlock shouts back sarcastically, ignoring his aching body.

Mycroft puts a hand on Lestrade's shoulder to calm him down, then stands up and walks up to his brother's side. Leaning upon his umbrella, he says quietly, "Brother dear, we have no idea where John Watson is located."

"Well find it out, do something useful with your fancy government status for once!" Sherlock replies, until Mycroft holds up a hand to silence him.

"Sherlock, listen to me very closely." Taking a breath, along with Lestrade, he says, "We don't even know if John Watson is alive."

It was as if all of the life, oxygen, sound, everything, was sucked out of the room.

Lestrade looked down at the floor, not sure where to look or how to be helpful. He was just grateful that it wasn't him that had to tell Sherlock that.

Mycroft stayed where he was, giving his little brother a pitying look, but not daring to touch him.

And Sherlock? He stayed Perfectly. Still.

After some minutes, Sherlock was to be heard muttering, "No, no, no, no…" No one in the room knew what to do at the moment. Lestrade excused himself to get a cuppa, not wanting to stay in the room with a broken Sherlock. Never in his career has he ever seen the man look so drained.

Mycroft put his hand on his brother's shoulder, the most touching thing he's done in years.

"I have my competent men looking all around London for him, but it has been thirty-three hours. Walker stated that he was done playing games with him, and-"

"My-" A short crackle full of saliva breaks up Sherlock's words, but he still tries to continue, "Mycroft… I need to. Um. I need to get out there. Please."

"Sherlock, you were just shot, I can't let you do that." Mycroft tries to reason, although deep inside he knows that his efforts are futile.

"It barely nicked me. Please. I need to find John." Sherlock begs, using "please" twice in the past thirty seconds, a record to break all.

"Sherlock, they may be after you too. Walker shot you. I can't let that happen again." The elder Holmes tries to show his concern without too many emotions… But that may not be possible today. No, today both of the Holmes siblings are showing more emotions than ever before. It appears that Doctor Watson has (had?) quite the effect on both of their lives.

With a surprisingly strong and calm voice, Sherlock says, "Mycroft. I am getting out of here. You can either help, or let me escape by myself. But, I am not going to let some person take away John Watson." He looks up at his brother, needing him to understand.

Closing his eyes for a second and taking a deep breath in, Mycroft says, "Fine." And then he adds, "But, you will come with Lestrade and me, which I am _not_ negotiating. Understand?"

Sherlock nods his head, and then finally pushes himself up from the bed. "I need my clothes." He states plainly, just as a nurse walks in.

"Mr Holmes, I-I don't think that's wise…" A small nurse says, looking absolutely terrified.

"Nonsense. Now, fetch me my clothes." Sherlock says, attempting to solidify his point by pointing her away with his arm. But the only thing that does is aggravate his wound, which really, does not help the situation.

"Umm…" The young nurse still doesn't do anything until Mycroft speaks up.

"Please, go get my brother's clothes. If you don't get it, he will, and I really don't want him running around the hospital more than he needs to." The older Holmes says with a sigh.

The nurse nods, and turns around.

A minute or two later she returns carrying a bag of clothes.

"Mycroft, why did you go to my flat?" Sherlock asks, recognizing the clothes as ones that were still in his closet at home.

"I knew you were eventually going to go running off, so I prepared myself." He states plainly.

Ten minutes later finds Sherlock all clothed, with new dressings on his side, and an irritated DI.

"Are both of you imbeciles?" Lestrade says, hearing about this plan of theirs to go across London in hopes of finding a man that may or may not be alive. "You haven't even been awake for an hour!" He says, motioning to the now empty bed in the hospital room.

"Dull." Sherlock replies, waving him off.

Rolling his eyes, Lestrade says, "Well at least you haven't changed one bit." Turning toward Mycroft he says, "What even is the plan?"

"While Sherlock was changing, I had received word of CCTV has picking up suspicious activity, so we will head there first. But, as far as the world is concerned, Sherlock is still unconscious at this hospital, and neither of us have left."

Lestrade scoffs at the plan of what to tell the public, "Why? Because we care so much?" Both of the Holmes give him a look, so he just mutters, "Oh Chri- never mind."

"Let's stop all of this, pedestrian talking, and find John." Sherlock says, out of the blue, looking rather pale.

"Sherlock, this really isn't a good idea." Lestrade says. It looks like Sherlock is about to fall over anyway.

"Boring." Sherlock says, and turns toward the door. "Do keep up."

Mycroft and Lestrade have no choice but to follow the Consulting Detective, and hope that nothing is going to go wrong.

The two don't even think about mentioning that John may not be alive. They just go along with the plan.

Fifty kilometres away, John Watson wakes up.

 **ACTION ACTION and MORE ACTION. Yeah. I got a little too excited writing this chapter.**

 **Reviews make me happier than a lion in a cage full of gazelles :)**


	7. It Was Going to be Quick

**A/N I hope you like John, because this chapter is 100% Watson! My goal of this chapter was to put you on the edge of your seat the entire time... So yeah!**

 **Characters still aren't mine!**

Fifty kilometres across London from St Bart's awakes John Watson, who is feeling particularly stiff this gloomy day.

As his eyes flutters open, the first thing he sees is the ground, illuminated by a very dim lamp. Using just his head to look around, he realizes that this lamp, along with one other, are the only light sources. The concussed part of his brain is extremely grateful for this. If only he wasn't still in this damned hospital gown.

He drops his head and closes his eyes again, so if someone were to walk in, he would still appear to be unconscious. Plus, closing his eyes makes his head feel much better. He doesn't remember feeling this concussed…

Right. When he limped out of the hospital room, clinging on the IV stand for dear life, the man hit him over the head.

The man…

In the back of John's mind he recognizes him…

Right! From the first thing that happened to him. The crash. So that means that this must finally be coming to an end - if the man behind all of this decided to show up.

Something else is still nagging at his brain though…

Why did he go out of the hospital room in the first place?

John's stomach does a flip flop when he remembers why. Because quite clearly he heard the unmistakable cries of his dear flatmate.

And not just cries of worry, no, that yell was of pain. John has heard plenty of those in his life. But Sherlock's? That was one too many.

When he finally got out of the room, it was not much better. Because then he saw Sherlock keeled over, looking a ghastly shade of white, weakly pushing his hands into his side.

And then, of course, everything went black.

Which brings him to here - to this strange room.

Even though he's no Sherlock Holmes, he can tell by the quick glance he stole earlier that he is in some sort of garage. It's awfully small, if two lamps can lightly fill up the place.

Trying not to visibly wince at the pain in his skull, he listens to the muted pitter patter of the London rain hitting the rafters, then sloshing down into the eaves.

Not to his surprise, when he ever so lightly moves his wrists, he finds them bound together behind him. With another experimental tug, he can say the same about his ankles.

 _Just bloody great._ John thinks, rolling his eyes behind his closed lids. _Trapped in a garage, tied to a chair. Head pounding, ribs aching from staying hunched over, and shoulder pinched from being pulled back. Bloody great._

Unable to hide the pain any longer, John lets out a stifled groan, hoping that no one noticed or heard that. If there even is anyone.

That'd be a rather dull way to die. Starved to death in a lonely garage, tied to a chair. _No, I'd die from dehydration first._ John reminds himself, which does little to calm his nerves.

John's next thoughts stray away from the hell hole and go over to Sherlock. At first he wants the great detective to find and save him, but then that seems too far fetched, due to the body composure he last saw him in.

So then the good doctor just thinks, _Please God, let him live._

Although he didn't see much before he blacked out, he saw a sickening figure of Sherlock with a worrying amount of blood seeping from around his hands. No telling how bad that could be.

A shudder runs through John, and he really _really_ hopes that if anyone was watching, they didn't see it. After around a minute he thinks that's the case, until a door opens. John doesn't bother holding up his act of unconsciousness any longer.

He pulls up his head - however painful it is - opens his eyes, and looks straight into the one's who is nearly going to kill him.

The man closes to door, then turns to the side to grab a chair that John didn't realize was in the room. The man swings it around, then sits in it backwards so his legs are off to the side of the back of the chair.

He leans his elbows on the on the top and says, "I've been waiting for this moment for, what seems like forever, so I'll make the whole 'speech thing' fast." John tries not to show any emotion at that, because he really wants more time so that Sherlock can find him. The man doesn't seem to notice, and continues right on, "I am Brenton Walker, former soldier of Her Majesty's Army. You are Captain John Watson, also formerly part of Her Majesty's Army. Honorably discharged, if I remember correctly."

He takes a breath and stands up. "Sorry about the restraints." Brenton says, motioning to John's chair. "Just a precaution. But now that I'm here, I'll go undo your hands. Nasty shoulder, no?" With a devilish chuckle he does indeed take off the restraints holding John's arms behind him.

Slowly pulling his left arm to his lap, John groans in pain, but flat out refuses to yell out in pain in front of this mad man.

"What?" Brenton asks, "No 'thank you'?"

In response, John spits out "Sod off," in his face, and then looks straight at him, not afraid. Which is really a lie, because the only thoughts in his mind are, _Sherlock you prick, you better be alive. And if you are, you better be looking for me._

Brenton shrugs his shoulders in John's response and mutters, "Close enough." He throws the restraints to the corner of the room and sits back down in his chair.

"Now," He beings, "Let's get this straight. My best friend, the kid I look after, was injured, shot actually, in the War. His name was Tyson Bowers. I saw you. You took one damned look at him, and then gave up. You put some dressings around the wound - for what though? Just for fun? Because then you turned your back on him, and left him _to die_."

John looks down at his knees, not saying anything, knowing that this is the truth.

"So then I stayed with him. Until he closed his eyes for good. When the kid took his last breath. 'Least I could do. And then that IED went off. You know what? I saw you get hit by the shrapnel. And the thing is, I didn't even feel bad. Hell, I still don't. Instead I watched you lay on the ground, concussed and bleeding." Brenton humourlessly laughs, which quickly morphs into anger.

"Well?! The fuck do you have to say for yourself? Answer me you pathetic git!" He yells, suddenly standing up from where he was previously sitting.

John, unmoving says two words, "I'm sorry."

And ultimately, that's what really set the psychopath off. " _You're sorry?_ _You're_ fucking _sorry?!_ That's all you have to say about it? About murdering my best fucking friend? I was supposed to take care of the kid, and I failed, because of you!" He knocks his chair down in anger. "Un-fucking-believable." He says under his breath.

Then, without saying another word, he opens the door, leaves, and then closes it. The simplicity of the action just worries John more.

With just the dim lighting to accompany him, he slowly cradles his injured shoulder, afraid to do too much with it. He eventually leaves it to rest in his lap.

He uses his right hand to rub his eyes, which doesn't really make his head feel that much better. The doctor then attempts to stretch out his back, which doesn't really work out, seeing as how he is forced to stay seated.

John glances down at his ankles, and sees that they are completely tied to the legs of the chair, and even if he could use both of his arms, at this angle there is no way that he could get his legs free.

Then he tries to scoot the chair closer to the door, but that doesn't work either, because as it turns out the chair is bolted to the floor. _Great._ Although perhaps that's not so much of a bad thing, because he doesn't know where he is, so once he got out of this garage, he'd have some problems. He would also still be tied to the chair.

Eventually he just makes peace with the idea that he is going to be stuck in here until someone finds him. Or until Brenton comes back.

Brenton.

That son of a bitch. Yes, John does feel extraordinarily bad for leaving Tyson to die, but he didn't have a choice. If he stayed and tried to save Tyson, then another - maybe even two others - would've died. John shakes his head at thinking about this. Since he moved in with Sherlock, he'd barely thought about the morals he used in Afghanistan.

The doctor continues to massage his shoulder, essentially waiting for his doom. _I suppose this is_ really _the case of my life._ So many people were in on this case. But really, how many people actually knew the reason why they were going after John? Maybe Brenton told them that the doctor was a murderer. He seems to think that himself.

John closes his eyes again, not wanting to see the walls around him. He's never really been claustrophobic, but he isn't exactly a fan of tight spaces either.

Three minutes later Brenton comes back in, calmer than he was before. Lethargically, John opens his eyes back up. Neither he nor John say anything when he walks in, which suits both of them just fine. Surprising John, he doesn't pick the chair back up. Instead he just stands next to John, looking down to him, in a condescending type of way.

The good doctor forces himself to look right back up at him, without his breathing increasing. There's no way he's going to be a coward if this really is the end.

Then out of the blue, Brenton starts laughing. Not even a short shy laugh, but a full out hysterical laugh. He turns around and slaps the wall, still laughing. Then he turns back to John and says, "I'm quite sorry. It's just that- well- I've been waiting for this moment for years, and now that it's finally here, I just - I don't know what to say!"

Brenton then crouches down so he's at the level of John and gives him a pitying look. "I'm real sorry about your detective. He's probably not gonna be too happy 'bout this."

"You should be the sorry one." John mutters back to him. "If you end up killing me, which is what I assume you're gonna do, Sherlock is going to find you."

"Heh." Brenton says nodding, "I guess you're probably right. But then again. I know his habits. When I was 'researching' you, I came across the famous blog. So I learned a bit about Mr Holmes. He has quite the drug habit. I mean, could you imagine? If some, oh, I don't know, cocaine? Yes, if some cocaine just happened to show up in his flat right after his friend died…?" Brenton smiles at John's expression.

"No, don't." John says flatly, not wanting to think about his flatmate destroying himself due to the demise of himself. "I thought all you cared about is me?!" John shouts out.

"Yeah, that is true. But I also value my life, and, as you said, Sherlock Holmes will go after me. So I guess then it's just a bit of insurance. Oh," He says, his face quickly lighting up in a devilish smile, "You're landlady is quite nice."

"What did you do?" John asks, trying to keep his temper in check.

"Nothing to her. Just while I was giving Sherlock a little present, she saw me. She's awfully sweet. I don't know how she keeps up with you two."

John gives Brenton a look, but doesn't say anything.

"Oh," The mad man says sighing. "Looks like I totally disregarded my own rule. I was going to make this fast. I suppose my speech got a little longer than I wanted. Oh well. I guess I'll just do it now." He shrugs and then pulls out a hypodermic needle from the pocket of his jacket.

John can feel his breathing pick up when the man draws the needle closer to his arm. Without thinking about twice, Watson brings up his right arm and punches Brenton in the face.

Brenton, who is obviously affected by the punch takes a deep breath and takes a step back. "I'd apologize about this... But you really brought this upon yourself." And then before John can react to that statement, Brenton takes John's left arm, with his hand that doesn't have the needle, and sharply pulls it behind the doctor.

John screams out in pain, 'not showing pain in front of the mad man' be damned. His vision goes grey for a moment and his body goes limp against the chair.

Through the haze he still hears Brenton muttering something in his ear, still holding his arm behind him and the chair. "Again, I'd say sorry for this… But I really wasn't in the mood to be punched." He holds the doctor's arm back for a few more seconds, and then lets it go.

John doesn't bother bringing his arm back up, and stays still.

Satisfied, Brenton takes the hypodermic and puts it next to John's jugular again. Right before the needle goes in, John swings his head back, then collides it with Brenton's nose.

"God! You-" Brenton stops mid swear and holds his hand up to his bleeding nose. John does the same with his right hand to his head. May as well make his concussion worse. Better than dying, right?

Brenton throws the hypodermic into the corner of the room and leaves abruptly.

John lets a breath out that he didn't know he was holding in and lets a few tears slip from his eyes. "Damn!" He curses out, grabbing his shoulder. What he wouldn't do for some paracetamol. Or better yet, some morphine. He rests his head on the back of the chair, and tries to block out the pain. The worse part is that in the back of his mind, he knows that all he did was slightly lengthen the time that he stays alive. But really, all this earned him was more pain.

Not a minute later passed before Brenton came back through the dreaded door with a hammer in his grimy hands. John feels his entire body tense up when Brenton's mouth turned up in a grin. His other hand is holding a small bath towel to his nose, presumably to stop the blood flow.

"Oh Christ…" John mutters, closing his eyes and mentally preparing himself for what ever Brenton is going to do with that hammer.

"As I said before, John, I was going to make this quick for ya. But you don't seem to be cooperating. So, I may as well give you some pain before I kill you."

Wordlessly, he then walks calmly up to John, positions the hammer above his right knee cap, and then swings it, as hard as he can.

John screams out in pain, reflexively grasping his knee with his good arm, tears flowing down his cheek.

Brenton laughs at his pain and says, "Now, we're gonna try this again. I have a new needle, because, you know, I care so much about you, and I don't want it to be exposed for so long. If you try and stop me again, I will cause so much pain to you. Scream all you want, no one is going to come and help.

John, who doesn't even try to speak, understands that this man is not messing around, and that he has probably crossed a line. And there are more lines, all of them with pain in and around them.

Brenton pulls the new needle from his pocket, uncaps it, and then walks up to John. Since he is still in that sodding hospital gown, exposing his neck is not a problem. And John, who is in a large amount of pain, will not be a problem this time.

John feels the needle slip into his jugular. He tries to bring his right arm up to stop Brenton from pressing down, but his efforts are futile. His vision is already half blacked out, and his concussed brain is making everything seem dizzy. He lets out a short "N-no." but that doesn't change anything.

Soon Brenton is standing back in front of John, with a pitying look. He cupps John's face and forces his limp neck and head to look up. "This: is for Tyson Bowers." Then he unties John's legs, and leaves.

John, with nothing holding him up, falls to the ground.

His vision is still blurry, his right knee feels like it's been dunked in lava, and his left shoulder must definitely be in a fire. Not to mention the hammers in his pounding head.

He crawls to the door, which hasn't been locked, and leans against it. The knob seems like a million metres away. Slowly, John somehow pulls himself up using his left leg and right arm. He turns the knob, and then immediately falls forward into the opening door.

Step one: get out of the room. John finally pulls himself out of the garage and into the cool London rain and breeze.

While thinking of step two, the good doctor's body completely collapses from it's half-crawling, half-walking position.

Maybe just a quick nap…

Real quick.

He has time for it anyway… Right?

Just going to close his eyes…

It'll be all right when he wakes up.

With one last thought of, _Sherlock, save me_ , John curls on himself and begins to sleep. Just simply sleep.

 **A/N Dun dun duuunn!**

 **Reviews make me happier than a lion in a cage full of gazelles!**


	8. Revenge is Sweet

**A/N I am so so so very sorry for the late update, I meant to have this up yesterday. But then yesterday turned into hell. Basically, I'm essentially under watch, and medications and razors have been taken out of the house.**

 **NEVERTHELESS: Here is this chapter, shorter than all the others. If I don't make another update in the next four days, then I'm quite sorry, but you'll have to wait for another week, for I will be away internet and electronics.**

Brenton Walker was extraordinarily confident in the fact that John Watson was a dead man walking.

He has a not-so-mild-anymore concussion, a broken knee cap (courtesy of him), and a fucked up shoulder. But the most important thing is the contents of a lethal injection coursing through his veins. Brenton is quite proud of that.

The mad man knows that a gunshot to the head would be more efficient and seal the fate of Captain Watson, but it makes for such an ugly corpse. And - well - who is he kidding to, he does want the Captain to suffer. After all, Tyson didn't get a nice and easy shot to the head. He had to lay there, dying, in Brenton's arms.

The ex soldier shakes his head in an effort to dispel the memory. None of that matters anymore. Soon, Captain Watson will be dead, and he can get on with his life.

Whatever that means.

Brenton has spent his entire life since discharge tracking down this man. He doesn't really know a life outside of it.

Perhaps he'll get a better job, one that pays enough so that he can get a better flat. This bedsit thing he has going on is not working out for him.

Brenton glances at his watch. Not too much longer now. He used a slow reacting chemical, but at the state that he left Watson, he wouldn't be surprised if he passed out pretty damn fast.

He's about to kill a man. This feels so different from the War. Because now he's killing someone for pleasure. Cold blooded murder.

A shudder finds its way through Brenton's body. He calls out to the cabbie, "Here's fine."

"Hmph?" Came the gruff reply.

"Just let me out here." Brenton says, his voice calmer and steadier than he expected, seeing as how he's about to become a murderer.

Another smaller shudder runs through him. He can't think about it that way. No, he's doing justice. Watson deserves to die. He's the real murderer in all of this.

The cab finally slows then edges to the left, until it stops entirely at the kerb.

"Fifteen." The cabbie barks out, turning his head to face Brenton.

The soon to be murderer hands a ten and a five pound note to the cabbie and murmurs a quick 'thanks' before stepping out of the car. Right into rain.

"Oh bloody Hell!" He complains to no one but the sky, looking up to see the dark grey clouds, knowing they won't let up anytime soon. Can't London get a full twenty-four of sunshine?

Pulling the top of his jacket over his neck and head, he half jogs half walks, weaving around the other commuters. Staying in the cab doesn't sound so bad anymore.

Opting to go have a pint instead of going back to his bedsit, he turns off into a small pub.

When he walks in, he sees some people chatting about, and others looking up at the telly upon the wall. Typical pub. Brenton looks up to see a news reporter, which is odd. Usually there's some football game going on.

"... Recently learned that the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, is in critical condition at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. His flatmate, John Watson, and brother, Mycroft Holmes, are both with him. They have no comment on Mr. Holmes' condition."

The news woman continues to blab on about some other "breaking news", but Brenton doesn't listen. He snorts at the fact that John Watson is at the hospital, waiting for his flatmate to pull through and wake up. How naive everyone is. The sad part is, that's probably what the world thinks. That Captain Watson is safe and sound, in perfect health, watching Holmes.

Brenton can't believe that Holmes is in critical doesn't make sense. He remembers shooting him on the right side so he wouldn't hit anything major. Uhg. Killing John Watson is more stressful than he anticipated. He hollers for a drink: something to soothe his racing heart.

But no, the ex soldier still can't get that nagging out of his head. He was sure that the shot wasn't fatal, or anywhere close to fatal. Granted, it is a bullet wound, so it's not like he can walk away from it. *****

Maybe Watson wasn't the only lie in the broadcast. Maybe Sherlock's not in critical condition… Maybe-

Then all of a sudden, the text from his useless employee comes back to him: " **i heard that he could tell who was a murderer based on a coat -C** "

 _If that is really true, then I'm fucked._ Brenton thinks to himself, getting more anxious by the second. If he's really that good, then John Watson has a chance of surviving, if Holmes finds him in time. If Holmes isn't in critical condition. Even though he knows that's a lot of 'What ifs', he's not taking any chances.

"Shite." He says, mostly to himself. Brenton practically jumps out of the stool, needing to find John Watson.

"'Ey!" He hears from the bar. Without even turning around, he throws a ten pound note (the first he grasped from his wallet) behind him.

He then runs out of the building, suddenly not caring one bit about the rain. He needs to get to that garage.

Quickly, he hails a cab and rattles off the address. "I have a twenty for you if you get me there twice as fast." he says to the cabbie, nervously glancing out the window, as if Holmes is following him right now. He's essentially used up all that's in his wallet, but at the moment he doesn't care one bit.

The ignorant cabbie obliges, stepping down on the gas. _You better still be there, Watson._ Brenton thinks, while the rainy London streets become a blur.

…

Lucky for John, and unlucky for Brenton, the good doctor wakes up not five minutes after originally passing out.

The quick 'cat nap' he took did nothing to help him- seeing as how his entire body is feeling numb. With a quick assessment of his own body, John can't tell if the numbness is from the rain, or from the drug, or a little bit of both.

Knowing that walking is not a possible answer right now, John turns to his side, and crawls again, only using one arm and one leg. _Thank God for the Army training._

He ever so slowly gets to a house, the lights all turned of. He decides that the house is the best place to go, even though he probably looks like something washed up. He blames still being in this damned hospital gown. And with bright bruises and swelling all over his body, he is not exactly a sight that someone would pity for, or help.

After ten excruciating minutes, he finds himself up against the wall of the house, in great pain and shuddering. A tremor racks his left hand, which he couldn't care less about. His head, leg, and shoulder all feel like they're on fire, and yet the also feel numb and weak. Probably from the drug then, not the rain. John curiously looks up at the sky, to see if it is still raining, because strangely enough, he can't feel it anymore.

To his fear, he sees the sky covering in dark clouds, and the ground still wet. John curses, and experimentally slaps his arm, to see if he can feel it. He can, but it feels like a small tap, and he still feels it, even thirty seconds after.

The good doctor tries to ignore this, and begins to formulate a plan for getting into this sodding house.

The door knob: _Too high up, it would require me to stand, which is not an option right now. It is also probably locked if no one is home. Which I am simply assuming. Hopefully no one is home._

The closest window: _Again, too high up. I might be small enough to fit through it, but based on my body, I may not even be awake enough to push myself through. And then I'd probably fall down once I got inside of the house, which would defeat the point of getting inside._

Breaking the wall: _Absolutely not._

And then John sees the way to get in. And lets out an audible groan. Because on the side door, there is a large dog door.

Oh, if Moriarty could see this, He'd have a fucking field day with this.

Hoping that no one sees this - especially not Moriarty -, John inches his way toward the door, trying not to think about the fact that he can't really feel the rocks and dirt underneath his body anymore.

Eventually fitting himself through the sodding dog door, however humiliating it was, John finally gets himself inside of the house. He nervously checks what is under him, since he can't tell if it's wood or carpet.

John curses. It's tile.

Right, none of this now. Thankful for the fact that no one is home (or the dog, for a matter of fact), John curls up on himself, and just wishes that Sherlock would magically find him here. John begins to close his eyes, deciding that he's done enough. He deserves to just sleep. The house is dark anyway… All the lights are off… The sweet pitter patter of the rain falling down...

As he collapses even further into the ground, a sharp pain in his knee brings his eyes to spring open. And after muttering a string of curses that even Sherlock would be proud of, he looks around to find a mobile.

He eventually finds one, on the counter. He decides that the luck that someone left their mobile in the house got canceled out because it's on the top of the counter.

Somehow propping himself up on his good leg, John reaches for the mobile.

And he Completely. Misses.

The numbness of the drug has really spread throughout his body, to the point where he can't really feel what he knows his fingers are touching.

Nevertheless, John attempts to grab the mobile again. He fails again, but this time he gets it to fall off of the counter, which really, he's counting as a win.

With a sigh, he falls back onto the floor, too tired to even keep his head up. This time he can't exactly feel the pain of a broken knee, which worries him even more. Clumsily, he grabs the mobile with his good hand, and pulls it up next to his face, so he doesn't have to move his head.

The doctor notices that the screen got cracked while falling down the counter, so he silently apologizes to whoever's phone this is.

He feels his heart speed up, from being the close to saving himself. But then he remembers that the faster his heart beats, the faster the drug goes through his system. Even though he's nearly positive that the drug is already totally in his bloody stream.

John then turns on the phone, and goes to the "EMERGENCY CALL". He punches in Sherlock's number, then lets the phone fall from his hand unceremoniously to the ground.

Without much delay, he hears the annoyed voice of Sherlock's voice, " _What._ "

Testing out his strength, John tries to pull his head closer to the discarded mobile and mutters back, "Shrlk?"

The response is immediate, " _John? John! Where are you?_ "

John tries to say back, "I'm not sure.", but it comes out more like, " 'M nt sreee." After saying that, the good doctor notices a small puddle of drool underneath his mouth. When did that get there?

" _Don't move._ " Sherlock says, transmitting from where ever he is to the phone next to John's face. _Phones are so cool like that…_ John's drugged mind thinks.

" _John? John?_ " He hears Sherlock's voice turn into great worry. Without control, John starts to giggle like a schoolgirl. _Sociopath my ass._

Satisfied with his work, John promptly passes out, his body numb, and his brain's last thought being, _How the hell did I ever think that Sherlock Holmes didn't care?_

…

In a place merely metres away from John's position, Brenton Walker jumps out of a cab, handing a promised twenty pound note inside to a happy cabbie.

Running to the garage where he left Watson, he curses at himself.

He sees the open door, and turns to the back of the garage. Left exactly the way he stashed it, his pistol lay underneath a discarded bucket. He hastily grabs it and cocks it, ready to face whatever is inside of the garage.

He kicks open the door, and yells out a ton of obscenities. Because Watson is not in there.

If Sherlock (or even John, if he wasn't… Well…) saw this, he'd have quite the laugh. Because not one hundred metres away is John Watson, weak as he's ever been laying down on the floor.

But a certain Brenton Walker does not know this. All he knows, is that John Watson, the person who killed his best friend, is somewhere in London.

Brenton Walker also doesn't know that one of the most powerful men in England is looking for him. He doesn't know that this man can control CCTV cameras. He doesn't know that this man can wage wars on other countries. He doesn't know that this man can take people away and make them disappear. He certainly doesn't know that's what he did to three of his employees.

The second most important thing that he does not know is that this man's brother is Sherlock Holmes.

And the most important thing that Brenton Walker doesn't know?

Right now, at this very moment, he is getting Tyson's revenge.

 ***Do me a favour and just ignore Series three for me :)**

 **A/N Sorry for the quality of these past couple of chapters, my life is really fucked up right now.**

 **Reviews make me super happy!**


	9. Losing Feeling

**A/N Hey all! I'm feeling so much better now, and I'd just really really like to say thank you for everyone who gave me support through reviews or PMs or following or favouriteing or whatever, you are amazing! I hope you're ready for the longest chapter yet!**

 **A very special thanks to I** **forgotmyformerusername** **who reviewed on all of my stories and favourited all of them, and PM'd me, and really just made my day! I had around thirty notifications from you all after I came back to electronics, and about four from my friends... So yeah (I need new friends)... Thanks again so much!**

 **~J**

Mycroft Holmes has access to the best tracking technology that exists, so finding the location of John Watson was not the difficult part. Sending emergency services was not the difficult part either. Reserving a private room in the hospital was, as the others, not difficult. But no, the worst part about all of this was trying to calm down his little brother.

Sherlock was most definitely _not_ a sociopath, even if he is highly functioning. The elder Holmes knew this by the time he was eight years. Mycroft is also quite sure that Scotland Yard would love to get a look at the man before him: freaked out and worried, his only thoughts toward the safety of his flatmate.

Although it got to the point where he was hard to control.

…

 _ **A couple of minutes earlier**_

" _Brother dear, you need to calm down. I am arranging a car at the moment to take us to Doctor Watson's location. Lestrade is already going there; I've given him the location." The elder Holmes states, voice monotonous as ever._

 _Quite unlike his brother's, Sherlock almost shouts, "Damn it Mycroft! This can't wait! I don't need a car to be 'arranged', I need one now!"_

" _An ambulance has already been dispatched, it will reach Doctor Watson in time." Mycroft says, still typing away at his computer, doing something. Possibly stopping a war via e-mail?_

 _Sherlock opens his mouth to yell more, until Anthea walks in with her damned BlackBerry and says, "Car outside, Sir."_

 _Without looking away from the computer (much like his PA and her mobile) Mycroft says, "Please escort my brother there, and do make sure he doesn't cause too big of a ruckus." With a sigh he adds, "They've just cleaned."_

 _Not saying a single word, Sherlock leads himself out of the room and to the waiting car. After all, he's been to this building many times. "This building" being an ordinary looking building, which in reality holds one of the four private offices of the British Government. But all people see is just a work building with the curtains all dragged closed. It's like hiding a tree in a forest. Boring little people._

…

Mycroft sighs at his computer screen then rubs his eyes. Due to the tracking in: the mobile John called from, the ambulance going to him, and the car containing his brother, he can see that things will be cut a little close.

The ambulance is nearly there, and the car that Sherlock is in is speeding through across London. Mycroft groans, oh the speeding tickets he's going to have to file through.

Absent mindedly he turns his attention to the red dot on the map that reveals Sherlock's location, and wonders what he's thinking right now…

The younger Holmes on the other hand doesn't have a single brain cell devoted to thinking of his brother. Instead all of his thoughts are centred toward John Watson. A few parts of his highly functioning brain remind him that John may already be dead once he arrives, but the detective quickly throws those thoughts to the side.

Mentally, he wills the sodding driver to go faster, because he needs _needs_ to see John. he knows that they're already going about 100 kph, but it's just not fast enough. Every other second he's yelling at the driver to speed up, until he yells back, "Sorry Sir, but Mr. Holmes won't let me go any faster." Sherlock growls and makes a note to punch his brother the next time the encounter each other.

And then the car suddenly screeches to a halt, the momentum sending Sherlock into the seat in front of him, seeing as how seatbelts are dull. But due to the now obvious pain from where he'd been shot, the Consulting Detective does sort of wish that he had buckled up.

"Oh Christ…" He mutters, climbing out of the car as fast as his damaged body would allow. When Sherlock looks around he immediately begins to deduce.

1) There is a few small houses around him, three of them with visible garages by them.

2) It is still raining; the roofs of the houses are making the pitter patter of rain obvious.

3) Four of the houses have lights turned on, but only two of them are emitting any sound from inside.

4 (and the most important by far)) There is a man that is running around a garage with a pistol in his hand yelling.

"Brenton Walker." Sherlock says as a statement, not a question. He already knows who this man is.

"Bloody Hell!" Brenton shouts at him, pointing the pistol at him for the second time in very little time. "I thought I shot you good!"

"Incorrect grammar, though you did shoot me." Sherlock says back, looking between the houses where the lights are off to deduce which one John is in. Out of the corner of his eye he sees an ambulance tucked around the corner of the street with its lights off, so Brenton can't see it.

"I'll shoot you again then, you dick!" Brenton shouts over the rain, and for a second Sherlock almost believes that this will be the case.

"Brenton Walker, put your weapon down." Comes another voice, causing Sherlock to give a short sigh of relief.

"Wh-" Brenton turns around to see a certain Detective Inspector with a gun.

"Put your weapon down." Lestrade repeats again, and glances at Sherlock, who is slightly hunched over with a hand pushed to his right side. "Sherlock go find him!"

Without a second thought on Walker or Lestrade, Sherlock runs, ignoring the pain in his side, to the house that he is 98.372% sure that John is located in.

Both of the doors that are visible from the outside are locked, so Sherlock deduces that John had crawled in through the dog door, which must've jostled his injuries. The detective crouches down to pick up a rock, which doesn't exactly go to plan, because his side must be screaming at him. But by using the side of the house to support him, he is able to pick up a sizable rock and throw it at the window.

Then with a few pained grunts, Sherlock hoists himself up the wall and up onto the window, before he pushes himself through and falls on what seems to be tile floor of the kitchen.

"John? John! John!" Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position and looks around, until he sees his flatmate's form on the ground, unmoving. "John!" Sherlock shouts again, and half walks half crawls over to his friend, ignoring the red liquid seeping out of his side. "John… No, wake up! John!" When he gets over to John, the detective can ever so slightly see the small rise and fall of his flatmate's chest, which causes Sherlock to slump over in relief. "Sorry John." he mutters before slapping him across the face.

In reply John groans and makes an inaudible sound.

"John!" Sherlock says again, as his grand vocabulary has apparently been reduced to one word. "

"Shhhrrll" John mutters, without opening his eyes and barely opening his lips.

"Oh John." Sherlock says quietly, and brings up John's head onto his own leg.

"Lgss." John says again, sounding slightly panicked. "Shll, legggs. Legsss!"

Cautiously, Sherlock looks down at the rest of John's body, cursing him from still being in a hospital gown, it's only about 12 degrees. Which brings up the next worrying thing: Why isn't John shivering from the cold?

Before the Consulting Detective can think about answering that question, he lays his eyes on the mess that is knows as John's knee. It has swelled up a ridiculous amount, and there is bluish blackish bruises to go along with it.

"Shhh, John. I know it hurts." Sherlock soothes him, trying not to think about what Brenton did.

"Nnnooo." John mutters back, saliva coming from the corner of his mouth.

"What?" Sherlock says, wishing that he could have a better conversation with his flatmate than this.

"Dsnt hrt."

"What?" Sherlock says again, getting more worried, and wondering where the hell the paramedics were. To not really answer his question but answer parts of it, three shots rang out outside, causing John to flinch.

"Cnt feeeel thmmm." John tries again, his head completely limp and slipping off of Sherlock's leg.

"No, John! John!" Sherlock hastily brings his flatmate's head back onto his leg, and brushes the hair away from his face. "No, no! Wake up!" Another shot is heard from outside, but this time John doesn't flinch. Sherlock casts a glance out the broken window, which is awfully useless, because it's dark out. When he turns back to John, his mouth is hanging slightly open and he's barely breathing. Sherlock can also see red coming from the right of his own shirt, but he pays no mind to it.

And then surprising Sherlock, the door bursts open and in comes a few people who, as even Anderson could deduce, were medics.

They swarm in and pull the two friends apart, eliciting a groan from John, and many panicked shouts from Sherlock. All of a sudden equipment is all around John, tubes and wires, while the paramedics are all hastily crying commands to one another.

Sherlock tries to stand up to get a better look, but his body disagrees and causes him to fall back onto a floor. He hears a doctor saying "Mr. Holmes?" But it takes a second for his mind to register that it's pointed toward him. "Sir?"

"Take care of John!" Sherlock tries to shout, but it comes out closer to a hoarse whisper.

"Mr. Holmes, there are already people working on Doctor Watson. Please let me check your wound, it appears that you've pulled your stitches."

Oh yes, that's why the blood is there. Sherlock nods and slumps down to the floor, head still turned toward his dying flatmate. Not a minute passes by until Lestrade comes up next to Sherlock obscuring his vision to the pile of doctors around John.

"Bloody hell Sherlock! Your stitches!" Lestrade exclaims, helping the doctor focused on Sherlock hold him still.

Sherlock waves him off and says, "Dull." Though he would be lying if he said he felt fine. He keeps trying to move away to check on John, until Lestrade sits down right in front of him, effectively cutting off the moving. "Lestrade!" Sherlock attempts to shout, but the DI is taking none of it.

"Sherlock Holmes, shut up right now. John will be fine, and now you're bleeding even more. Sit still or I'll sedate you!" The doctor lets out a short snort at that comment, but then continues to dress Sherlock's wounds.

Just then the other paramedics working on John start to shout at each other. Ignoring Lestrade and the other doctor's protests, Sherlock 'jumps' up using the counter to stand and tries to walk toward John.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yells, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him back down.

"No! John!" Sherlock shouts, twisting his arm away from Lestrade's grip.

The doctor quickly turns around, grabs a syringe, and then helps Lestrade pull Sherlock back down without injuring him further.

"Sherlock, sit back down and breathe, John is going to be fine." Lestrade commands, sitting himself between Sherlock's line of sight and his friend.

"No!" The detective shouts yet again trying to push Lestrade out of the way. "Let me see him! John! John!" The doctor gives Sherlock a short sympathetic smile before pulling out his left forearm and pushing the syringe's contents into his bloodstream.

Lestrade and the doctor slowly lower Sherlock onto the floor, while he's still muttering, "John…" Over and over again. Eventually the Consulting Detective's eyes fall closed, and the doctor takes a steadying breath before lifting up Sherlock's shirt once again and attempting to staunch the blood flow of the reopened wound.

Now that he's feeling quite useless, Lestrade pulls himself off the floor, trying to ignore Sherlock's blood, and walks outside to ring up Sally and Mycroft.

After he's done that, the DI climbs into his police car, runs a hand over his face and wonders when his hair became this grey.

…

Before either of the flatmates woke up, Mycroft was able to track down the rest of the men working for a certain Brenton Walker. But it wasn't exactly fair because Mycroft had some extra sedatives slipped into the two's daily medications. They did really need sleep, seeing as what's been happening the past couple of days. He also had the help of Lestrade to track down the men.

It took a full thirty-six hours after John was found. The elder Holmes had most of the men in his cells, and last four of them sent off to Scotland Yard. Mycroft cursed himself for taking that long. He must be getting dull in his age.

In a place not too far away from New Scotland Yard (but not too close either) Sherlock Holmes wakes in hysterics. Having just arrived mere minutes ago, Lestrade is a little slow to react at the insane flatmate. Which surprises him, seeing as how he's on his fifth - no, sixth - cup of coffee.

Finally pulling himself together, he jabs the 'call' button and tries to sooth Sherlock down.

"John!" Sherlock says, sitting straight up in a bed, looking around but not really _seeing_ anything. "John! No!" Lestrade can see the involuntary wince come from the Consulting Detective, but Sherlock doesn't even notice that his side has just been stitched up again.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade says, trying to push the man back down on the bed, after all, he'd just had surgery. "Stop, Sherlock." He says calmer this time, hoping that his voice will help the younger man. "Lay back down, or you'll pull your stitches. Again." He adds, with a small eye roll.

"John?" Sherlock questions again, breathing considerably better, but still much too fast for Lestrade's liking.

With a sigh and a small smirk he replies, "He's five feet away, you twat. Your brother got this room specifically for you two." He finishes, although the DI knows that Sherlock is no longer paying attention to him. Now the DI is about as useful as a cardboard cutout of him.

As soon as Sherlock turns and lays eyes on his flatmate he moves to get out of bed to get closer.

Lestrade immediately stops him by putting a hand out and clicking his tongue. So, not completely as useless as a cardboard cutout. "Stop it now, you're hurt."

"Dull." Sherlock waves him off and continues to attempt to get out of bed.

But it must be Lestrade's lucky day (minus _literally everything else_ that has happened) because the nurse finally arrives at that moment.

"Mr. Holmes!" She exclaims, practically squeaking, and runs over to his bed side. "You must stay in bed. Doctor's orders."

"John is my doctor." He mutters back, eyes still fixed on his friend.

Lestrade sighs at his comment and says, "Yeah, that's great and all, but John is currently unconscious, so for now just stay put. Plus if John were awake, I'd bet fifty quid that he'd say the exact same thing. Which is to _stay put_."

The Consulting Detective crosses his arms, much like a child, but obliges and lays back in bed. "How is he?" Sherlock asks, casing a glance toward the nurse.

"Oh um. I-I can't…" She stumbles over a few more words before she says, "I'll go get a doctor. He'll explain." and then scrambles off, leaving the room at an awkward silence.

Lestrade nervously clears his throat and then says, "Er, your brother has Brenton Walker-"

"Why would I care?" Sherlock interrupts (and lies), fiddling with a few controls on his bed side, casting quick glances to his flatmate hoping Lestrade doesn't notice. He does.

The DI just throws his hands up, and says, "Listen Sherlock I don't know how your brain works - hell, I don't think anybody knows how - but I just thought you might've wanted that information." Oh God. Why does he even try anymore?

Sherlock replies with a "Hmph." type of noise then resumes his crossed arm position.

"Besides, you aren't fooling anyone with your 'sociopath' br-"

"Highly functioning!" Sherlock automatically corrects, giving Lestrade a disgruntled look.

"Right well, whatever you're calling it, you are not fooling anyone anymore, so I though that you might get some closure in knowing that Brenton Walking is in the hands of your brother."

"Boring."

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Oh for Christ-. You've not been awake for five minutes! How are you already this annoying? It's like a skill!"

A groan emits from John's unconscious form, and for a second it almost seems like he is going to wake up.

"John?" Sherlock questions, positioning himself so that he can easily see his flatmate. And for the first time he really gets a good look at his friend.

It appears that he's covered head to toe in some sort of bandage, covering some sort of injury. The most obvious thing that Sherlock sees is the sling around John's shoulder. But this time it's different - this time it's bulkier and more supportive. Ergo, the shoulder has not only not healed, but has gotten worse.

The next thing he sees is a bulge underneath the blankets where his knee should be. So it's painfully obvious that he is hurt there, which Sherlock already knew of. But John wasn't complaining about that back at the house… He was muttering that he couldn't even feel his legs- No, he can't think about that.

There is also a small gauze covering the side of John's head. Sherlock also assumes that his friend's concussion is no better, which is easily deduced at the fact that he was slurring his words back at the house. Or perhaps that was from something else? It's obvious that there was some type of drug that was introduced to John's blood, but which one? Perhaps that's what caused the loss of feeling in his lower body?

So when John's doctor finally walks in (who Sherlock previously remembers as Dr. Abaine) the detective asks, "Which one?" before the doctor can even open his mouth.

"Sorry?" He asks, confused and looking over the Lestrade for clarification. He just shrugs back.

"There was a drug in John's blood, that much is obvious, so I'll ask again, which one? Or is that too much for your ordinary brain to comprehend?"

"Sherlock…" Lestrade warns, glancing at him with a rotten look.

"No no," The doctor starts, "It's alright. You are in fact right, there was a drug. A very strong sedative, given to him with the purpose to kill. A couple minutes later and that would've been the case. Now, we'll talk more about Dr. Watson when he is awake, but for now we will address your injuries."

"Dull!" Sherlock says, giving a glare to Dr. Abaine.

"Sherlock you git, just shut it and listen." Lestrade says, wondering how he's worked with the detective for so long without killing him.

Dr. Abaine glances to the two a few times before resuming, "Mr. Holmes, you have succeeded in pulling out nine of your twelve stitches, which led you to losing a lot of blood in the process. We were able to redo the stitches, but we'd like to keep you here for at least twenty four hours for observation, because infection is still a possibility.

As if he completely ignored the entire statement (which he might've) Sherlock asks, "When will John wake up?"

"We've taken both of you off of sedatives, so right now it's up to him. Though I will warn you, when he does wake up, he's going to extraordinarily disoriented, so you may want to take some caution." Dr. Abaine says, who looks slightly annoyed at the fact that everything he just said to Sherlock went right over his head.

"I need to go back to the flat." Sherlock states plainly.

"Sherlock! Bloody hell! Were you even listening to one bit of this conversation?" Lestrade says, face full of disbelief.

"No, it was dull."

"Well, in that case, I'll reiterate." Lestrade says, coming closer to Sherlock to make his point more evident. "You are not moving from his hospital bed. It was bad enough we let you do so earlier, but that was because John was missing. Now he's fine, well, fine-ish, but both of you need to heal."

The Consulting Detective stays quiet for a moment before continuing, "But I-"

"God, Sherlock! If you need something I'll ask Mrs. H, but right now you are staying right here!"

Interjecting through the conversation, Dr. Abaine says, "Do you two have any questions?"

Lestrade replies with "No", but Sherlock doesn't pay any attention. Eventually Dr. Abaine nods and walks away.

A few feet away John makes another noise, which causes Lestrade and Sherlock to get hopeful, but he still doesn't wake.

After ten more hours of arguing between the two detectives, and three times Lestrade stormed out, John finally wakes up. None too quietly either.

 **A/N Muahahahaha cliffy**

 **Are you thinking about reviewing but aren't sure? Even just two words really makes my day!**


	10. Authors Note

**A/N Hey guys thanks so much for your support on this story.**

 **A few special thanks to** **KathyG** **,** **Starcross123** **, and** **AureEntuluva13** **, for leaving many, many reviews throughout the story! I've decided that I'm going to make a sequel, starting the moment chapter 9 ended, rather than continuing it on this story.**

 **Fear not though, for I have already started the new chapter/story (it already has 1800 words!) so it will be uploaded soon! I don't have a title yet, but I'm leaning toward 'Shouts of the Medic' (idk, you guys can PM or review and leave me a title suggestion I really don't know what to pick), so keep your eyes peeled for the next installment these days coming ahead!**

 **tl;dr~ Their journey will continue in a new story (check my profile)**


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